Indoor Life

As I've whined about already, I'm inside all the damn time now. Yesterday alone, there were almost 4,000 new Republican Plague cases and nearly 2,000 NEW hospitalizations here in Massachusetts. On top of that, we've had a bit of snow and ice recently. Precipitation's welcome – we need it – but, DAYum,  it cramps my style and these grey days bring me down. They deflate my perk.

Luckily, I've got  Matt Ruff’s awesome and creepily prescient book Sewer, Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy (published in 2004 and set in 2023). In it, the orange, tantruming Treason Toddler was never president. In fact, he died, untragically, in 2013.

Atlantic City’s sole monument to Donald Trump wa a row of memorial slot machines in the Lightning transit rail terminal. Seven in all, they stood bracketed by two doors marked MEN and WOMEN; above them, framed, was a series of newspaper headlines pinpointing key moments in Trump’s ultimate downfall, including the bulldozing of the Taj Mahal casino complex and Trump’s own death in a Cape Canaveral launch-pad fire, which had ended forever his dream of being the first Marian billionaire (T-MINUS TRUMP! the New York Post obituated, over a full-color photo of the exploding shuttlecraft).

“Quite a commemoration,” observed Kite. “I take it no one in town cried much at the funeral.”

“I don’t think they gave him a funeral,” said Joan. “Just don’t put any money in those slots. They’re designed to only give back one percent of what they take in, and the top jackpot never comes in. It’s the worst gamble in the city.”

“Is that part of the memorial?”

“Yes.”

PERFECT, just bloody, fucking perfect! Read this yesterday morning and I'm still smiling!
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Just in case you were unaware, staying in your pjs all day, on cold wet snowy days (when you’re not going out ANYway), is NOT a crime. RILLY! Also too, getting out of bed is overrated.

While I didn’t change from my night pajamas to my daytime set yesterday (yes, I am QUITE the trendsetting fashion plate and Ten is the most tolerant of partners), I DID manage to do one set each of five different PT exercises. Lemme just tell you…my pulled chest muscles gave me a stern talking to about this at 1AM. Not cool. not cool at all.

The original plan for today was to do TWO sets each of five AND take a walk down to the seawall and back (the ice is slowly melting). I believe, while I’ll take that mini-jaunt to the sea, I’ll stick with the one set of five for one more day.

Did I really need pulled chest and back muscles on top of my glacially slow recovery from August’s spine surgery? No. No, I did not. One thing the muscle pull’s done for me is this – now I am PISSED (the US meaning of the word, not the British)! Wicked pissed, in point of fact. I’m sick of the pain, sick of the decreased mobility and SICK of being tired and sad. FUCK THIS FUCKING SHIT RIGHT NOW! goddammit and shit.

Yeah, I’ll be be smart and go slow with my recovery exercises BUT steady on! Maybe not full speed ahead but, certainly, as determinedly swift and constant as I can go.

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2020’s fatal mistake was throwing one too many piles of rabid weasel shit at ma tête. The Republican/Fascist Sedition Machine was bad enough but then I get two big, fat neurosurgeries (with another, or chemo, on the way), five ugly seizures, Plague45 (with all the idiot trumpian cultists who’ve made it worse) and then I go and pull my chest/back muscles during a fucking coughing fit?

Yeah, this year’s too broken to live.
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In an effort to lighten our moods, Jen found us a straight up sitcom to watch during teatime – Derry Girls.

We’ve watched one entire ep so far and it’s HILARIOUS but when do the vampires and zombies show up? No sign of ‘em yet – maybe in the next ep?

This morning's sunrise. Thank you, Ten!