STINK

In Stephen King's The Shining, Dick Hallorann tells little Danny Torrance that he and his grandmother used to smell oranges before they'd 'shine'. That smell of oranges told Dick that somewhat was happening that other folks don't know about. Oranges are sweet and nutritious, and the general idea here is that this sixth sense will get Danny out of trouble, despite an alcoholic child-abusing father, no friends and a lonely winter in a snowed-in hotel.

People who have Cotard's syndrome are depressed and suicidal, like the rest of us, but they take it a step further: they believe they are walking corpses, and can often times claim to smell their own flesh rotting and feel worms crawling through their skin. That's pretty disgusting. (This was brought to my attention in Chuck Klosterman's book 'Killing Yourself to Live', which Ted just finished reading and I'm coincidentally reading now.)

This morning, from the time I walked out my front door until the moment I got to work, all I could smell was fried chicken. I'm a little bothered by this. Either I'm receiving premonitions about greasy deep-fried trouble that will rear its head in the near future, or there's a chicken with Cotard's syndrome trapped inside my body. Either way, I'm uneasy.

But a little Googling Cotard's syndrome brought me here, where a music fan from Australia rates his bumping into Strokes lead singer Julian Casablancas as one of the sublime moments of his life. I'm hoping this is the extent of the uneasiness I was meant to uncover.

(Oh, and like some of my friends, this Aussie takes time out from writing about politics and music to make gratuitous pet posts.)