Re: Scurvy
Sometimes, I get an E-Mail that prompts me, for some unbeknownst reason, to pen (or type) an over the top reply.
In the below case, one of the guys here was eating an orange, and couldn't think of what oranges prevented, and then E-Mailed me, "Scurvy. That's what oranges cure."
I replied thusly:
True. Ah, scurvy, my old faithful friend - that which forms liver spots upon otherwise flawless skin, which turns gums from solid tooth-foundations to a spongy gelatinous mass, which encourages bleeding from the body’s mucous membranes, allowing you to share your lifeblood with the world - ah, how I remember our fond days together.
When wounds suppurated and enamel fell from mouths, when eyes became sunken and purple spots dotted our bodies, when old scars re-opened to pour forth fresh blood, how we longed for the citrus-laden taste of an orange, a tangelo, a lime, a tamarind! How distant and exotic seemed the commonplace, entirely inaccessible to us in our plight! How we wept, how we lamented. How dark our lives became. How stained with the cruel comedy of our own blood, irreparably leaking down our arms, our legs, our bowels, as it spilled onto the ground unfettered and unrestrained.
Take not for granted that which can spare you this fate. Engorge yourself upon the healing properties of the ambrosia, the nectar, the life-giving acid which rots you from the inside while sparing your life. An unpleasant tradeoff, certainly. But one you should believe yourself lucky to make.
In the below case, one of the guys here was eating an orange, and couldn't think of what oranges prevented, and then E-Mailed me, "Scurvy. That's what oranges cure."
I replied thusly:
True. Ah, scurvy, my old faithful friend - that which forms liver spots upon otherwise flawless skin, which turns gums from solid tooth-foundations to a spongy gelatinous mass, which encourages bleeding from the body’s mucous membranes, allowing you to share your lifeblood with the world - ah, how I remember our fond days together.
When wounds suppurated and enamel fell from mouths, when eyes became sunken and purple spots dotted our bodies, when old scars re-opened to pour forth fresh blood, how we longed for the citrus-laden taste of an orange, a tangelo, a lime, a tamarind! How distant and exotic seemed the commonplace, entirely inaccessible to us in our plight! How we wept, how we lamented. How dark our lives became. How stained with the cruel comedy of our own blood, irreparably leaking down our arms, our legs, our bowels, as it spilled onto the ground unfettered and unrestrained.
Take not for granted that which can spare you this fate. Engorge yourself upon the healing properties of the ambrosia, the nectar, the life-giving acid which rots you from the inside while sparing your life. An unpleasant tradeoff, certainly. But one you should believe yourself lucky to make.