So I sold my motorcycle to Ken. It was inevitable, since I haven’t cramped up my ass on that thing since I moved to this humid swamp called Houston. Ken will no doubt use it as a tool in his never-ending quest to pull crazy ass, and I hope that it serves him well. By my reckoning, it should serve its purpose in that function, though that particular aspect was less hit and more miss when I rode it. That makes sense if you consider the fact that Ken grew up to look like Shia LeBeouf while I bear a closer resemblance to a balding blond version of Ernie from Sesame Street as the years pass me by. Nevertheless, that motorcycle was a sound purchase for me. This is a fact that in and of itself is something of a small miracle given my propensity toward completely useless purchases. If you ever get a few beers in Ken, orally or anally, ask him to regale you with the exciting tale of my chair massager that connected to my Xbox, and all the value that it had.
Sickness abounds in my world. I felt like ass all last week, and no, it wasn’t the popular H1N1 virus that Saira piggybacked in from Atlanta. It was just a general mystery malaise that kept me in bed for damned near a week, feeling achy and … blah. While feeling blah far surpasses feeling nauseas or feverous, it feels a lot like being the only person in your house, but swearing that you just heard someone whisper your name. The ethereal manifestation of non specific symptoms makes it very hard to steel oneself against oncoming sickness. If I feel like throwing up, at least there is knowledge that if I do yawn out my breakfast there will be a short window of respite from suffering while my body consumes delicious endorphins. Being tired and bedridden just makes me feel like my body is just half-assed sick, as if it just won’t put forth the effort to have a full blown illness and I’m just going to have to wait it out until my mortal coil is done phoning it in.
I still worked, though. I just did so in my underwear from the comfort of my computer room while my cats stared at me with a mixture of admiration and madness. I don’t know how it is with those of you who own cats, but the felines in my house raise their hackles whenever I talk into my cell phone. Since cats instinctually compare themselves to the sun and its pivotal relationship as the center of the entire universe, I don’t think that they realize that when the only human in the house begins talking out loud, he isn’t berating or admonishing them. He’s simply talking to another human a billion rooms away… or he’s just, you know… talking to himself. This possibility didn’t enter their little prissy brains, so every time I connected to one of my users in Wyoming, Alaska, Colorado, Utah, Virginia, ect… one or both of the little shit makers decided that if I was going to yell at them, then they were going to yell right back, by God. What this means is that while I was talking to these people, these annoying ass cats were piping in on the conversation with scattered yips and howls in an effort to show that I’m not the boss of them.
Sometimes I hate those God damned things.