My daughter created a new website for me. Something that I can use to incorporate my life’s work, she says. Really. An unfinished photo album and a unalphabatized collection of exercise music ought to draw the numbers.
I originally spelled “ought,” “aught.” I am losing my English, which means that not only do I lack the native tongue here, but I am also losing my native tongue, too. Soon I will only be able to communicate with Simbots.
Speaking of which, Karin and Edit created one of me. Karin asked me a list of personality profile questions, like, “Are you organized?” “Yes,” I said, stuffing the coffee stained toaster into the cupboard, on its side.
Why does every coffee maker double as a dribble glass?
A lot of this year’s style is noise. Not good. It is a sign of discord. Hard to explain, but if you took yesterdecade’s tie dye and covered it with the silk screening of fifteen haunted mansion sized cobwebs, or computerized Jackson Pollock, you might get a sense of the look.
The dog’s front ankles are broken. Wasn’t the damn ticks after all. It was all my running her. And the rocky terrain. And her kindly nature. “I can tell from her muscle atrophy that she would have run with you no matter how much pain she was in. Horses are like that,” the vet said. Or something like that. She was learning to run in weird ways. It wasn’t until she came out of the water soaked last week that I noticed that it looked like she was wearing baseball bat weights just above her high heel shoes. I fed her Canadian codeine for four days and took her to the vet this morning. The doggy ER didn’t have room for her last week. No orifice bleeding, I guess. “Do you have insurance?” they asked when I first checked in. I turned my head to the side, like a confused terrier. Insurance for dogs? Isn’t that what their big brown eyes are for?
No running. No stairs. No playing. No extra food. No getting in and out of cars. No extra food. It is a jail sentence. She will need a lot of codeine.