I must be taking myself too seriously lately because I have not laughed since the Super Bowl commercials. My yin and yang, Cheesh and Chong and gin and sing are out of sync. The proof of the pudding is a new crop of fever blisters smack dab front and center beneath my snozola. Surely I am not yucking it up sufficiently enough to be healthy. I feel like a self conscience, insecure adolescent with bad acne. I slather on Abreva to no avail. The good news is once you hit sixty, you become invisible and no one looks at you anyway.