It Ain’t All Roses
Some days you win, some days you lose, and other days, you break even.
Today broke even. Shouldn’t have even been anything remarkable, and yet the day was… meh.
Too many responsibilities, things left unsaid, unopened, incomplete, undone, or unraveling to have a sense of calm.
Working from home, I’ve become a bit of a hermit. Worst part is, I kinda prefer it. Went out into the world that is people, and I just…didn’t want to be in the rat race, didn’t want to deal with the menial trivialities of the day-to-day.
I don’t know what all that means, but my kid just came down and gave me a big ‘ol hug and kiss goodnight, so that was a win.
I’m think I’m gonna go prep the coffee-maker for my wife for tomorrow morning, and turn on ‘The Orville.’
Oh, got a haircut. Doug does great work.
I think I’ll cheat a little and copy over something I was working on for my standup. If you made it this far, you get a reward:
I found my father dead in his assisted living facility on Friday.
Or at least I thought he died, at least from the smell. Turns out he was just passed out in the bathroom mid-shit.
He was unconscious and unresponsive, which lead to the calling of an ambulance and a stay at the hospital.
I’m told Carla from the kitchen staff sends her apologies and regards.
Something to consider: we make fun of dogs for sniffing butts, but we’re just as bad in a completely different way.
Go to any hospital ward and walk around. Every time you see a gown come open, your brain involuntarily screams “BUTTHOLE!”
It’s worse when the gown opens from the front. And it’s your Dad. And your eyes, goddamn them, don’t NOT immediately look at the *ahem* Family Jewels.
Worse, the reason the gown is opening and his dangly bits are flailing about is explosive and uncontrollable diarrhea. You’re scrambling to move this man onto the porta-potty, but your brain is still processing whether or not you have a bigger dick than your Dad, and now you’re not completely sure and need more information to prove or disprove your hypothesis. At the same time, the Beef Stroganoff gravy Carla made is returning with a vengeance into the bedpan next to you, and all you can do is hold the man’s hands and NOT. BREATHE.
It’s a work in progress.