Notes from the Sickhouse

I’m afraid I’m going to have to conclude Sex Toy Week. Not that displaying my whips on my blog for whoever to see is not an absolutely charming idea. After all, it’s not like I USE them or anything . . . no, I’m not having regrets! Me, regrets? Hah! Ahem.

So, how ’bout them Red Sox?

Not to change the subject, but . . . somebody forwarded me this photo of two ancient human-types who died hugging each other.

The bone-digging community as all astir over it, because it’s very rare to find two skeletons together, much less two skeletons together engaged in some sort of romantical act.

In other news, everyone in the world and outer space seems to have caught the same cruddy cold. I myself am fairly miserable with aches, faucet-nose and the rare sinus infection; Rocky and Melissa are at the tail end of theirs, and everyone else I know is either just over, in the middle, or about to catch the miseries. Melissa and I are in the middle of packing up our house, so the place is in a shambles and our food and stuff to live is all in the downstairs apartment, where we’ll be staying until everything up here is done.

The other day Melissa was standing on the couch, taking things off the wall, and when she went to step off she tripped over all the shit on the floor and fell across the room, somehow, and landed on the fish condo, the 300-pound fish condo, hard enough to move it across its stand. When you move big fish tanks they’re likely to break later on in the middle of the night and flood whatever’s below your house, in our case still-wet drywall and two brand-new studios, so we had to transfer the stressed-out fish to a little tank and drain the big one. Luckily Melissa was not hurt badly, but Pocket and Parsley are petrified in their new digs. Whenever I come near they dart around frantically and try to break through the glass to get away.

Well, that’s the report. Boring? Perhaps. But hey, I’m sick.


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