illness as petafor
My lungs are cascading like an open window. I see my oldest cat rumaging through the screen door, too big to actually make his way out. The DVR plays sixty minutes in the background, thoughts of Jose Canseco floating through my head, the frozen, dank piece of pizza circling my intestines. I have so much antibiotics in me and my feline that I have to use his litter box and he the toilet. There isn't a lot of time, you know. I am about sixty percent of me at the moment. Whatever my sinuses have become owe more to the viscous surface of Jupiter than the earth. I think they replaced them with magma. You know, they. The the's. I am beginning to know them by name. Although, when I wake up I'm not sure I remember them. I continue to struggle with my chocolate addiction. There is a slightly moist cakey product on my refrigerator. Coffee should be made and the TV kept on for more programming. I have the cat hair infested chair which will give my fatted body support. I long for the cakey repaste. I need to administer the thyroid medicine to my cats ear soon. I've already given it to him once today. Maybe in the morining. Don't want to do the things that could make it so difficult for him. He is special to me. So are my other babies. All three make me happy. My job doesn't however. My job is causing irreversable respiratory distress. I don't have to feel guilty about not being there after hours. Although they tell me that I should. They. The the's. Life is good tonight except for the constant and chronic fecal compulsion brought on my the Ceflex.