Acknowledging that his station in life is rather more gingham than Givenchy, as the Fool-errant passed a used clothing donation box on his way home, he swapped the finest clothes he’d ever turned to rags for something a little more modest in a better state of repair. Subjected shortly thereafter to a creepy pair of eyes sweeping up and down his figure over a pair of smacking lips and an altogether too busy middle-aged tongue, he wondered if he’d just had an unpleasant taste of the answer to his musing on what his gender-swapped life might have been like, and shuddered to imagine cretins in positions of power like Lizzy’s son Andrew hiding similar behaviour and attitudes behind respectable public personas while crossing more egregious lines someone less endowed with largeness than himself might be powerless to prevent.
He wondered if the dissociation from one’s emotions required to be so lacking in empathy could have anything to do with lizards’ insistence on birthing by caesarean delivery, but that line of thinking soon brought back to him the old feeling of disabling and shocking cold associated in the murky depths of his pre-verbal unconscious with the touch of the forceps that had so rudely yanked him from the excessive epidural haze preventing him from assisting his mother during labour and plopped him unceremoniously into a world where he now carried an unarticulated fear and anticipation of getting similarly screwed over at any critical moments that might arise in life by someone else’s cold, unfeeling attachment to business-as-usual, with a hernia, compromised control of his kegel muscles, and decades of occasional migraines all thrown in as added bonuses courtesy of the delivering doctor’s impatience and negligence.
While his apprenticeship in the trade of Fool-errantry had mostly healed him of these issues and taught him creative methods for turning the pain of future recurrences of old patterns into laughter and new belief frameworks from which to make choices free of the influence exerted by past trauma, he wondered if it might be time to engage the help of some sleuths who could suss out the raison d’être behind the cold winds blowing from Upper Tribeca rumoured to be at the root of the British infestation that ravaged the Prefecture, but forgot all about his resolution shortly thereafter when he stopped to admire his dear Dulcinea’s image once again.
Use no medicine in an illness
Incurred through no fault of your own.
It will pass of itself.