Flu-phobia. You engage public at the most elemental but wrong-seasoned activity AKA dishwasher/food shopping and you deplete like rigged games. Add magic and the happy ending revives like a minstrel on a carnival cruise starring VanWil. Not breakdancing revived but good enough to manage the annual blitz 'o feelings required for holiday peak performance. Not risking premature adulation but steady in feeling as good as it gets.

Choice of merengue or isolation tank determines what qualifies as prevalent. The good thing about feeling flu-phobic is it's not the flu so it's STFU, Donny. Gone in a plume of tranquility. The compactness of the Come Together Compact up-votes fluidity and the jet stream there plants you facing the mid-morning sun and sings "how could feeling so good possibly be bad for you?"

The extent of penisentricity in determining pain-level today makes it a 2. The jizzometer is still at Hi-Acceptable level.