This takes its final bow out (to my raucous applause) with a place to write and illustrate your own little cartoons. This is what I wrote in the space provided:
A rash appears on my left breast.
“Oh my, oh my gauche,” the Antelope coughs behind cackles of laughter, undisguised.
“Hey! You told me you were a doctor!” I yell after her graceful bound through and out the window. Absconding the scene along with my dignity.
When my mind gets distracted while reading, I scratch away. I know I’m not supposed to, and the red splodge widens and deepens as it variegates in colour. It is beginning to glisten, transforming into a petite window looking out on what appears to be either a too early sunrise or a sunset approaching its final sweeping and spectacular close, a foghorn signalling the descending night.
Worrying it will never go away and if another itch I prefer not to scratch suddenly appears, what then? How will I have sex with my hideous and deformed condition? I won’t have someone describe sex with me as ‘crepuscular’. Not again. Not after last time. It took me weeks, if not days, to recover from that wagon of embarrassment. I might have to cart this feeling around with me forever. That could be another 60 years!
A dead tree stump blocks my path, conveniently holding out the information I require the most. Perusing this handy rolodex of possible causes to my gross disfigurement, which has grown to resemble a full-blown case of J. M. W. Turner by the seaside, I spy that horrible word, a slur in some parts of my neighbourhood: gluten.
Remembering the day before the rash appeared I was in enthusiastic attendance of The Great Marsupial Bake-Off. I thought I told those cheeky sniffing-nosed Tasmanian Devils and I recall repeating it several times to each and every blank-faced Wallaby in a 5km radius of the ovens, “I don’t care if the gluten is ‘free’, I don’t want it.”
How could anyone misinterpret that. Do they want me to end up on the endangered species list too?