SEVEN PILLS

Normally when I get up early to get to work ahead of the boss, which is every work day, I swill some strong coffee and head out for a pipe while wandering around the block. Question of mental health. And getting the juices flowing. Today is my first day back after the angioplasty. But I'll wait till I get to work before lighting up, because A) it's quite frigid out there out there, and B) there's sort of a courtesy agreement with a medical person that I will smoke less after the angioplasty. It was to actually quit entirely for a few weeks, but um yeah that's not going to happen. And I work in a place with crusty old farts in the back room who spend their waking hours sodden with tobacco products, expensive liquour, and who knows what medications that keep them alive, functioning, and semi-calm.

I'm taking seven pills a day now, per prescription.
Five of them before the anglioplasty.
New one twice a day.


Getting older means more grumpiness. Fortunately none of them are, to the best of my knowledge, psychoactive. Unlike the fossilized old fellows I deal with regularly.
Who were largely borderline insane to begin with.

History tells us that Rome was built on seven pills.


Erm. Perhaps that joke fell flat? Leastways I don't hear anybody laughing.


I'll try that line on my apartment mate to see if she clouts me good for a horrid pun. She likes wordplay but I'm not sure she has much tolerance for what's actually a crappy dad joke.


Won't float it at work. The old bastards are too dense.



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