What? It’s Thursday Already?


Today’s one of those days. I’m at home for lunch, and I really don’t want to go back to work. I’m pretty sure I can be underpaid, disrespected, double-guessed, kept in the dark and humiliated somewhere with a more comfortable chair to sit in. Something’s gotta change. I’ve got a college degree, for cripe’s sake. And nearly 20 years experience in what I do. No raise in years, they cut my vacation pay, they still won’t give me the promised retirement fund… I can put up with all that, provided I like what I do and feel respected. That ain’t happening.


Good jam at the Chesterfield last night! I’ve been feeling very cramped-in and isolated lately – it’s been a long time since I’ve talked to someone other than myself, my wife, and my buddy Drew at work. (There’s precious little communication at work. The occasional bark, that’s about it.) So I was really ready to go watch some musicians play last night and hang out with friends And I have to admit, I feel much better about my place in the cosmos today.

Aw, poop. It’s time to go back to work. I still have four or five hours of broken hopes and heartache before I can come home again and hug my wife.

Later that same day…

Well, I made it through the afternoon without quitting or being fired, much to my chagrin. And I did indeed go home and I did verily hug my wife.

“You feel hot,” she said in mid-hug. “Vait here.” So I stood there, waiting. Back she came with the thermometer. After a minimum of scuffling and dancing about she got the thermometer in my mouth.

“But I feel fine,” I said around the thermometer. “I’m just a little tired.”

“You have a temperature of 102,” she said. “Do you want to go to the doctor?”

“No!” I barked. Then, “Well, maybe if I don’t feel better after supper.” Then, “Yes. Take me to the doctor. Please.”

Pneumonia sucks. I have pneumonia. The doctor won’t let me go to work and told me not to leave the house until Monday at the very earliest. Pneumonia sucks. I’m lucky I have a good wife with a healthy sense of humor that will put up with my sick butt.

The worst thing about it is that the pills that make you better are thirteen dollars each. The best thing is that my wife is going to make me Jell-O.

I’m going to go lay down now and count my precious thirteen-dollar pills. Have a good night everyone!

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