Sunday Night

The most depressing thing about a Sunday night is that it precedes Monday morning. The weekend is winding down and in a matter of 12 hours or so, my pasty white one will be planted firmly in a chair in front of two monitors and a USB powered fan pondering a move to go pick up a lemon poppy seed muffin in the cafeteria.

False positive yo. ‘Nuff said.

Yesterday we took Faith back to the vet where she had her bandage removed to reveal the absence of the tip of her toe. She’s still wearing the cone because she won’t leave the toe (or lack thereof) alone. As a result, the attacks on our calves with the edge of the cone continue.

Remember that kid in Mad Max with the boomerang that had a sharpened edge? The assaults are like that, sans decapitation.

Now that Tina Turner song from the next Mad Max movie is going through my mind.

This morning in church, I was moved to yell “Preach it Brother!” when the minister referred to chicken sandwiches at Chick Fill A as being awful as he couldn’t understand why putting a pickle on a chicken sandwich could ever make it taste good.

I wonder if he’s read my blog.

Beyond that, the weekend has been pretty quite and ideally boring enough that I should be fired up and ready to go back to Cubeville tomorrow.

But I’m not.

I never am.


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