Getting over a cold. It’s an extremely minor cold, but a cold nonetheless.
The lousy thing is that just last week, I was bragging to my sister, my
brother-in-law, and my parents about how I hadn’t gotten sick in over two
years, blah blah blah. Pride goeth before the fall.
At least Pat and
Walkingstick
were kind enough to stop by last weekend and see me in my dire condition:
(phone rings at 10pm)
Me: Hello?
Pat: Hey, it’s Pat. Me and Walkingstick want to come over.
Me: Umm, great! Hey, where are you calling from?
Pat: Sam’s house. We stopped by, but he’s not home.
Me: So what am I, Plan B?
Pat: Don’t flatter yourself.
So the two of them stopped by to hang out for a few hours. Not only did
they leave plenty of cans and bottles behind, but they were cans of
Diet Pepsi and bottles of O’Douls. I mean, cripes, they trash
the place and they don’t even have the decency to bring
real beer. I think I must have the worst friends
ever.1
Anyway, I’m fighting off this cold with clean living and an all-orange juice diet.
I think it must be working, because last night at poker I actually won a dollar. I
think that constitutes clear evidence that my clarity of mind and body is
improving. However, M’ris suspects that my poker buddies were
just afraid to take my germy money. Shows how much she
knows — I could soak my wallet in untreated Ebola-infected monkey blood and
my poker buddies would still be falling over themselves
to take my money. But really, that’s a whole ‘nother story.
1. Julius Caesar excepted, of course.