No, this is not me and not particularly what I went through or what I’m going through—except for the parts that are exactly like what I went through or what I’m going through.
And my penultimate-ish panel involved a small green stone instead of horror movies and Skittles.
But I did have my Eskimo vagrant moments. Still do. Probably always will.
There are worse things.
This is unacceptable: I’ve lost my voice.
Gone gone gone daddy gone.
I started getting a sore throat on Sunday, by Monday my voice was pebbly and on Tuesday, it was full-on gravelly. I did make it through my classes, but by the time I got off the train my voice had disappeared down my gullet. I tried to say “thank you” to a cute tot who closed my dryer door at the laundromat, and all that came out was a squeak.
You can’t yell at cats with a squeak and, unsurprisingly, they don’t much respond to a whisper.
My throat doesn’t really hurt; it just doesn’t work.
I don’t like it.
He’s home, three of his legs are shaved below the joint (paws unshaven: legs of an off-kilter coiffed poodle), he’s eating, he’s drinking, he’s eliminating what he’s eating and drinking, and he’s fighting me when I try to give him his three medications—all good signs.
Staff at VERG-South were very nice, not snitty about my fiscal inability to keep him in the hospital any longer, and quite complimentary to Mr. Jasper.
We’re both breathing easier tonight.
AbsurdBeats 