It’s not me.
It’s Spouse and Boy (and maybe the cat- they’re all so hairy).
As for me, I can sit at the kitchen table and discuss vomit and “The Exorcist” and all things projectile while eating a 12 cut slice of pizza. (Side note: “All Things Projectile-” a new NPR show about rockets and drones and trebuchets and such?)
Also what is “12 cut” pizza anyway? Do pizza makers not realize that if they take an average-sized pizza and roll over it twelve times they’ll end up with ribbons of pizza? Conversely, if a shop makes a pizza large enough to cut even ten times they’ll end up making about one pizza per store and be out of business within a week. Why must I fix all things linguistic? (Take note, NPR.)
I’m talking to you upstate NY.
But not really.
I’m mostly wiping. Counters and floors and handles and such. It’s so exhausting; I can hardly find time to shop online for shoes. (And dresses and scarves and hats and such.)
I was able to get out and buy a lottery ticket yesterday so there’s that.
Because nothing cures a stomach bug faster than 2.6 million dollars.
Except maybe a Twix bar.
Because life’s too short to not enjoy food when it’s moving in both directions.
You’re welcome.
Fresh Air and Sarcasm 
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