fever days
the journal of Michael Werneburg
twenty-seven years and one million words
Nothing quite like a fever in the warmest weather of the summer. I once decided that I must have been some member of the Nazi regime to deserve all of the bad luck I seem to attract. On a whim I looked into which of the old gang died around the time I was born. It turns out there's a wingnut theory that Hitler himself lived to a ripe ol' age in exile in Paraguay, and that he died about five weeks before I was born.
Enough time for the system to assign a new body to take on all that bad karma?
I kid, I kid. I mean, I did look it up, and that was the result.
But I'll accept that I'm sick yet again as a matter of course and admit I've had an amazingly good life. And with that, it's time for:
Three reasons to be thankful:
- I'm not actually the reincarnation of Hitler, paying his dues.
- That's not a thing.
- I am surrounded by a loving and healthy family, and live in a peaceful country where I make a semi-stable living doing moderately interesting stuff.