Oh Mr. Kleenex! Why did you stop selling your designer tissues?
Why, instead of this elegant, subdued, and I-dare-say-oh-so-slighly-exotic tissue box, am I forced to blow my nose into a run-of-the-mill tissue? From a box that matches neither my mood nor room decor?
What will happen to my c'hi, Mr. Kleenex, when - in the middle of a good cry - I shed my tears onto a facial cloth pulled from the depths of a flowery tissue dispenser which looks like it was designed for housewives of the 1960's?
Let's face it. . . I need a good productive cry and it won't qualify as "good" as long as I'm consumed with worry about clashing decorative patterns. Is the very item whose sole existence is to provide me comfort and solace destined always to fight with my draperies?
Who wants to stare at gaudy flowers when they're at the height of their misery? Is the box supposed to cheer the afflicted? Lift sagging spirits from the doldrums? Relieve swollen eyes and aching head by screaming bad taste?
Misery loves company, Mr. Kleenex.. .
Misery loves company.
So please send back my tissues to me.
In utter haste.
Like now. . .
Penned a panic-stricken
and dejectable. . .