What Stale Hell Is This

When people I know talk about their weekends, they tend to say things like: “We went kayaking in the mountains” or “I held my newborn niece for the first time” or “I saw [insert band name] in concert, and it was amazing!”

When people ask me about my weekend, I want to say cool stuff like that, instead of:

“We spent 2 days watching our roof leak at 20 gallons per hour,” or

“I slathered various creams on the 40% of my body that was covered with weeping, seeping poison ivy pustules”, or (most recently, worst of all),

“We dug a cat grave.”

Just as, financially, we can only afford the day-old bread, we also appear to lack the karma stamps that would enable us to feast upon fresh hell, only hell that’s past its sell-by date. Not that either kind is particularly welcome but — like the bread — you just have to eat it.

R.I.P. Lucky Boy, you much-loved, much-missed, and preposterously misnamed feline.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

 

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