The metal folding chair was doing a number on Sharon’s back. Along with a handful of arm-crossed citizens, she sat before the town council and watched them stuff their faces with slices of cherry pie that the Mayor’s wife had brought in. Sharon’s stomach churned. She was too nervous to partake. Read more “Aye”
I present to you a recent conversation I had the other night with my wife:
“Is that blood?”
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t feel any pain.”
I rubbed my thumb against the stain on my forearm and looked down at my shirt. Another small brown stain presented itself.
“I think it’s chocolate,” I replied.
“What? Did you even eat chocolate today?”
“It’s possible? You don’t know?”
“Hmm.. yeah, I don’t remember. It’s possible.”
“Well give it to me and I’ll run it through the laundry. Hopefully it didn’t stain.”
I gave her the shirt and a fresh load later, she shows it to me.
“Well there goes another shirt.”
I grab it and look at the mostly faded stain. “What do you mean? I can just cover the stain by holding my arm like so. This is still good for at least another five years. ”
“You’ve already had this shirt for five years.”
“Oh yeah? Hmm,” I reply.
<insert sighing wife>
I promised myself I’d finish my workout. I really hate it when I let myself down. Here I am, halfway through and ready to puke.
Wait. No! I can do this. Don’t be a wimp.
But I am a wimp!
Well, then in that case.
And somehow I find myself transported from the gym to my living room, nursing my nausea on the couch while surfing Reddit, doing my best to avoid the NSFL(Not Safe For Life) photo threads that will obliterate my last line of defenses and send me hovering over the toilet for the next half-hour.
Okay, fifteen minutes into vegetable mode and the burning phlegm is beginning to settle. But I’m not quite ready to make any sudden moves. Are those hunger pangs or is my stomach just thoroughly confused? What kind of signal is it sending to my brain? This has to be some sort of gastrointestinal conspiracy at work. I wish my organs would stop arguing. Feuds between roommates rarely turn out well.
Okay, we’re at the thirty minute mark and I think I’m ready to tackle the stairs. If only I had invested in an elevator or kept a jet pack in the entryway closet, the idea of taking a shower wouldn’t be such a pipe dream.
You idiot, do you really want to stink up the place? Yeah, that’ll really make the wife happy.
Sigh. Okay. C’mon, you can do this. Up and at ’em! Ooh, that crack sounded bad. I can still feel my toes though. That’s a good sign! That’s a good sign. Alright, there’s the first step. Just lift one leg and keep the other on the ground. It’s not even that high!
Hooray! You made it to the top before nightfall! You definitely deserve some cake. With cookies on top. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.
Let’s just turn on the water in the shower and peel off these sticky gym clothes. Success! And in you go! Aaaaahhhhh-sweet-merciful-God-I’m-never-leaving-this-place.