Note: Look, you losers. This is today's second entry. Therefore, it's "write about whatever the hell I want to" time. In other words, if you don't want to read about colds, sneezing, and masses of blood, don't.

You big babies.

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My nose, for one reason or another, exploded today.

I've had a cold thing going on for a month or so--one of those little niggly sicknesses that only make you snuffle once in a while. It's been a little worse as of late, mainly because I haven't been getting enough sleep (which, I promise, after this I'll do, for once in my life).

That's not important, though. In fact, the purpose for that whole paragraph was just to give you some exposition to know one thing: I'm used to sneezing right about now.

At any rate, I was on my bed when I sneezed. I have a tendancy to plug my nose when I sneeze, if I'm not in General Kleenex Vicinity, so, after plugging my nose and completing said sneeze, I let my hand fall back on the bed to balance as I reached for a tissue, thinking it was dry. It wasn't until I was blowing my nose when I realized: "Holy shit, there's a huge mass of blood on my bed."

Initally I blamed my hand. It was innocent, despite having some drying blood on it. Then I came to the conclusion that I was having a bloody nose. All very logical, right?

Well, I wasn't having a nosebleed. My nose had bled, yes. But only for that one sneeze. It was the oddest thing. I don't have nosebleeds often, and I've certainly never suddenly bled while sneezing.

So I guess it kind of made an impression on me. Sneezing is a violent enough act--do I have to have my nose SPURT BLOOD? Of course, my body seems to say.

I can't help to think that yes, it would be a little more HARDCORE if every time I sneezed, I shot blood. Come on, with a talent like that, I've got a sure job as a guitarist for Ozzy Osborne. But at the same time, I can't help thinking it'd get a little repetitive, and that I'd eventually die of bloodloss during allergy season.

But, yea. As I've said, this all made an impression on me, and that's why you get to hear about it, gross subject or not.

The blood will stay on the sheets for months to come, a reminder that I need to change them someday. Maybe in a year or two. And the stains on my shirt--undiscovered for a bit--will never wash out, a constellation of rust-colored pinpricks.

All of which, I'm sure, makes me seem unquestionably HARDCORE.