I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone in the world hates me, or everyone in the world is deaf. Or both. Yeah, it’s definitely both. The world is full of hearing-impaired jackasses who don’t care about me. It’s a Deaf Jam Justin Slam.

Why, you ask? Well, for as long as I can remember, no one has ever acknowledged my sneezes. I never get a “bless you.” I don’t get “gesundheit.” Hell, no one even asks if I shat myself.

I suppose people have told me “bless you” before… just not for sneezes. I mean, I’ve done other sinister acts that warranted the Lord’s blessings. Like that time I got in a fistfight, or when I was a bully in school. Oh, and that one time I called everyone on the planet hearing-impaired jackasses.

But that was long ago. I’m an innocent little angel now. I deserve better. When I get sick and start sneezing my lungs out, I demand to be comforted. Quit giving me the “common cold shoulder.”

Whether I’m at work, at a friend’s house, or just day drinking at Chuck E. Cheese, please pay attention to my nose burps!

Maybe I’ve overreacting. Maybe you don’t all hate me. Maybe you’re not all deaf. Some of you might just be confused. I get that. I’ve been told my sneezes don’t sound like sneezes. Sometimes they sound like roars. They can be loud, aggressive, and even scary (which is all the more reason you should ask if I shat myself).

My sneeze has two parts. Phase One is the attack. It sounds like an ostrich stepping on its own neck. It has a loud “gawwwk” screech that literally confuses pigeons and makes them fly into glass windows.

Phase Two is a half-second mix of every animal mating call at once. It starts pretty low and ends about two octaves higher. An astute listener might even pick up hints of a car engine running on peanut butter. As the sneeze subsides, it jiggles away like Elvis Presley is hound doggin’ it up in my nose.

I asked my boyfriend to describe the overall experience, and he put it best when he said, “It sounds like someone’s shaking a weasel.”

So there you have it. I sneeze like I shake weasels. I’m a no-good weasel shaker. I’ve probably orphaned a little baby ferret somewhere.

Is that a sin? Probably. But now we know my sneezes are atrocities that require divine intervention. So ironically, I deserve to be told “bless you” more than anyone else on the planet.

So please, bless me. Help me find Jesus. Save me from this downward weasel spiral. If matters don’t improve soon, when I die, I won’t even get into Hell. I’ll have to go someplace worse: Walmart.