The Broken Soldier

I just got back from dropping Sarah off at her old office.  She’ll be gone for a couple/few days making her old company look smart, much much much smarter than they really are, in front of various Lindens.  For the next few days I’ll be sans babysitter.  The bad habits of bachelorhood are already creeping.

I probably shouldn’t self-incriminate, as my wife will likely be reading this, but in two hours I’ve already violated several rules.  I drank milk from the container.  I smoked in the living room.  I’ve been eating pecan pie from the tin with my hands.  Unshaved.  Unshowered.  I figure I’ll be fully feral by the time she returns.  It’s cold and rainy here in my piece of Heaven, and my injuries are bothering me.  It’s unlikely my fits of graceless depravity will spill outside.  And I’ll do my best to keep the crude condiment cave drawings of me sustenance-hunting my pets and couch cushion-gathering to a minimum.  That’s a lie.  I couldn’t reach the tip top of the cathedral ceiling anyway, and there’s plenty in the freezer to eat.  Though I may throttle the squawking parrot anyway.

Tomorrow morning I’ll be violating another rule: Driving.  That is, unless I can convince a friend or family member to rip themselves from a warm bed before 9 a.m. to take me to the neurosurgeon.  I’ll keep ya posted.