THE MINOR GODS CRAVE SUSTENANCE
It probably was filled with soup.
I deduce from this that she has recovered from her horrible cold, which kept her well nigh bed-bound for four days, surrounded by her stuffed animals, including the she-sheep with the pretty pink bows and the senior teddy bear. As well as two of the monkeys: 'Sock', and "Control'.
I could hear them in her room whenever I came home.
The monkeys were arguing over bananas.
[The 'Control Monkey' was rescued when the company moved and the insensitive jerks in the Marketing Department left him in the vacated area to fend for himself, all alone and deserted. I saw him, and perched him on the credenzas that I raced toward the loading area. He came home with me, and has been a solid and upstanding citizen of our home ever since. Except when he's too possessive of the Senior Teddy Bear, and offends others by asserting that "the womany thing (my apartment mate) doesn't need a bear, she's too old and knackered". This displease the womany thing, the teddy bear in question, and the she-sheep. He feels their grim aura of menace, and has hysterics.
Then he sulks. That side of the apartment has far more drama than is healthy.
Unlike my side, where there is calmness, reason, and sanity.]
She's at the office now.
Everything is quiet.
I am not particularly good with sick people. Largely I like to treat them as normal folks, the only special concern is that they have an extra blanky or throw-rug if needed. Which will then have to be considered infectious by itself, but no matter.
When I am sick I don't deal well with the healthy individuals in my vicinity.
If bedridden, I will grump and say stupid things like "I'm perfectly fine, and no I don't want soup!" The second part is true, but the attention that a bug brings seems so undeserved. I didn't do anything. If I saved the world AND cured cancer, THEN you could bring me a bowl of soup. Chicken noodle.
I'll still feel it's too much trouble, but I will be secretly pleased.
Oh, you actually noticed; all wars are over.
The orphans have been housed.
Okay then, soup.
I have a suspicion that when I'm old and decrepit I will act disreputable, in hopes that no one notices. The problem is that then they will probably cut me an enormous amount of slack, saying "the poor old dear is on his last legs, might as well allow him to be an animal, just ignore the clumps of hair falling out and clogging the gutters", or something like that.
I shall be the terror of the convalescent home. Filipina nurses will wrinkle their refined little nubby noses when I light up another pipeful out in the yard, sending the reek of tobacco into the open windows, and they will draw straws for the odious task of bringing me an umbrella and pushing me out to the distant parking lot where those who smoke must go.
"He's crabby, push him into the canal!"
Damned Filipinas. No consideration!
I had a cold for several weeks. Other than the coughing sneezing sniffling wheezing hacking and sliming, I don't think anyone noticed.
I didn't do anything remarkable during that period.
Carried on as usual, and even smiled.
A normal death grimace.
For the first time in over a month I feel fine. Better than ever, in fact.
Time to go have some hot greasy tidbits, a really BIG cup of the chosen beverage, and hang out near little children and old people while smoking a Virginia and Perique mixture. Maybe I'll even head down to the Financial District and piss off office workers by smoking near their building.
But first, I have to do the dishes.
A bowl, and chopsticks.
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