Cloned Booger Mormon sex slave, pit bull mink-lined handcuffs naked Mt Everest carnation up my nose
Scanning the news does not make me feel better. I'm now not even sure if I am awake.
Eyes crossing, head pounding, trying to pull myself together after a night of exhausting dreams. Must be better in time for going-away family dinner for Martha. Or I will never live it down.

For the second time in a week I wish to take a sick day. Didn't go to Mass at 7:30. When I told Rick that I was sick and tired plus guilty about not getting to Mass he said, "Well, you should be." The little hiccupy crying I started made him take notice. I just rarely cry. Rarely take a sick day and very rarely cry. About anything. Very rarely. (And this crying jag was the lachrymal equivalent of the perfunctory drop or two of urine that one might produce before boarding a plane for a six hour flight. Legitimate but hardly significant.)

On my way back to bed I decided to check my email and scan the news. Why I would even click on a story about cloned puppies must be a symptom of my post-prednisone malaise. Combine my low opinion of anyone who would pay to clone a pet with my disdain for a pet owner who would 'pick' a name like Booger... Quite a rewarding less than human interest story.

(And to think I was worried about the poor Mormon missionaries who found Bridget sitting on the front porch. She listened politely while they did their little pitch. Then they listened, in response to the question of what her job was, to her Jagermeister pitch. 56 herbs and spices. No deer blood. St. Hubert, don't you know. No converts were made. But I can imagine the colorful impression he now has of Cathlics.)