Today was a long, slow crawl through Hell. Oh, I was chipper enough at the start -- 12 hours of sleep will do that for you, more often than not -- but as the the day drug on, it wore off. All too soon, it was like one of those dreams where you're running in slow motion on a mission you barely understand.
I tried to stick to tasks that could productively be accomplished in that frame of mind and may have even succeeded,
By happy go-home time, I was puffing and wheezing if I essayed a fifty-foot stroll. I tried to stop at Goose The Market to pick up some BACON! but by the time I got there, it was 20 'til closing time, there were at least a dozen mean-lookin'* men in line ahead of me, and the half-block walk had left me with a visceral understanding that my time vertical was measured in single-digits of minutes; I caught my breath and stumbled back to the car.
I drove closer to home and hit Fresh Market, where you get a cart to lean on and I know where everything is. Picked up a tiny little deli chicken and some frozen vexed migtables and this and that; arrived home to discover Miss Tam was even then, in fact, in the act of Retiring For The Night. Just like the cats, you can lure her out with a chicken drumstick -- and just like the cats, she declined vegetables.
And thus, fed -- me with a very fine pile of vegetative goodness to enjoy, drowning in magical anti-cholesterol margarine -- we find ourselves at keyboards, me composing this and Tam researching Bacon Survival. Priorities! Ya gots to have 'em.
We'll both be Retiring soonly, I think.
* For which read "bearded and with that I-gotta-pick-up-everything-on-this-list look," I suspect, but I'm worn out and ill and therefor prone to overreading situations and persons.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago