While the temperatures here topped 90 degrees every day for over a month, I got sick and couldn’t shake it. I had a headache for over a week; a pinched nerve in my neck made cycling impossible. During the Olympics, I spent a lot of evenings lying flat and watching TV with one eye open. This has put me in a MOOD.
Red peppers, looking sexy.
My doctor, to whom I’ve been a consistent source of amusement for about 25 years, retired at the end of June to move to the West Coast and spend time with family. I understand that other people have their own lives – in theory! – but this is very inconvenient. To me. One day, I was so sick Pete poured me into a car and took me to the doctor’s erstwhile office, where a young sports doctor looked me over and was very confused about how I was balancing an ice pack on top of my head and making conversation. I liked her very much, and she was very helpful, but I’m used to working my comic stylings before an older demographic.
Sometimes I too feel like I’m full of tiny bubbles.
Though it was above 90 again today, the spell is broken. I am pale and out of shape, but feeling like myself again. The fall semester begins in just about a week and I’m registered for a class I’ll do well in. Most of our jarring season is behind us now.
I’m ready for things to cool down just a little. I’m ready for things to heat up.
Slate is now inviting word nerds like you and me to diagram the Donald’s endless “sentences.”Stop laughing! That is not a sentence, it is the sound of a million primary school teachers crying in frustration.
Someone else’s driveway can seem ancient, broken and glamorous. However, this is just a shady spot on a damp street.
Here at Poor Impulse Control, we have a new motto: Words. They’re not for everyone!
Today, I heard an intelligent person say, “Trump says all the right things.”
Invisible bad kid sits in yard corner, contemplating what nobody saw him do.
Obviously, my new hobby is trying to convince a middle class, state-employed, Hindu immigrant that a WASP billionaire con artist doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her or people like her. She will never be white enough or rich enough to be spared by his jackbooted followers.
The Republican National Convention opened today in chaos and cacophony. I tried to pay attention for about a minute, but slapping your forehead has limited appeal.
Lights on, somebody home.
No. No one is home.
I’m thinking of locking my door and baking a new nominating process for both parties.
My final exam is Tuesday night and I’ve reached a sort of saturation point. I’m having trouble telling similar ASL signs apart. I’m probably in grave danger of starting fights in the wrong bars.
Wet hen does not seem particularly mad.
I’ve spent my Fourth of July studying, digging up potatoes and prodding the other chicken to leave the coop. Apparently, Other Chicken is trying to hatch an egg, which cannot happen without a rooster. That is the kind of help we do not need.
It’s drizzling tonight. I’m trying to be reasonable about taking and exam and not punishing myself for losing a couple of points here and there. There is literally nothing at stake for me. My career will not change. My work will not be affected. I am not going to get some dream job if I finished a degree. So I can relax and do my best, letting the chips fall where they may.
Sez you, lady.
Yeah. That’s going to happen.