You know, sometimes I write shit like that assuming it’s obvious that I’m joking, and someone will make a comment to me in real life about how I’m paranoid.
And it makes me wonder if I’m not as funny as I think I am (seemingly impossible) or if some of my friends aren’t as funny as I think they are (also seemingly impossible).
And yet, even though I know this may be chalking in the ledger of ways I think “everything is about me,” I’m still going to title this post that, because I still think it’s funny.
Anyway, coincidentally, after spending the day in a room still tainted with the stale farts of Andrew Jackson and then finishing up the triangle afghan, I got sick. Sicker than I’ve been in a long time. Like, I’m still not entirely sure what day it is kind of sick.
Sometimes you get sick and you can still lay on the couch and crochet with a Kleenex up your nose. And sometimes you get sick and you stay in bed for three days, not quite asleep, not quite able to pay attention to the podcasts you’re ostensibly listening to. This was the latter.
But I’m still alive. Masonic Devil Farts be damned.