The Best Choice

And so it goes, mainly downhill. Well, physically.

Days get pretty limited by a lot of trouble breathing when I try to move, and a lot of coughing thereby, which leads to a lot of puking.

My cup runneth over, all right, but let's don't go there, and you're welcome.

And why am I so happy?

I love my days, and even love the long sleepless nights (do you know that wonderful feeling of sliding back under the covers after a cold 3am dog walk?).

I love the beer that cuts the nausea so I can have at least a small meal. The way my body processes alcohol now, I don't even get mildly drunk, darn it, but BEER is my One Word for 2023.

I love Barb and the dogs and the cat and you, the people who drop by to read this stuff, share the trip, and offer encouragement.

Love's a choice, I guess. The best choice of all.

When the push doth come to shove,
I really love my wife,

so I'm buying her a copy of

The Porpoise-Driven Life.

With this I will go real big,

and think it would be cool

to alter the backyard and dig

a deep wide swimming pool

in with the big fish could enjoy

water-walking on his tail

(he, assuming he's a boy)

and round the pool would be a rail

to allow anointing, porpoise-fashion

with a whole great lot of splashin'.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ASSUME. I assume I can do this.

People will not give me room,

and I'm often pressed,

because they feel free to assume

that I am real depressed.

"Talk it out, " they like to say,

"tell me how you're feeling down."

When I say that I'm OK,

they shake their heads and frown,

thinking I am in denial,

delusional, or am on drugs.

Then they really hit their style,

and offer smoochy teary hugs

while I try to make it clear

that I really want a beer.

Four minutes fifteen of veracity. I really am OK, but a case of Fosters ale sure wouldn't go amiss.

Music from Thirty Seconds To Mars, with Do Or Die.

Sylvia says, "Ice cream. Don't forget to say you love ice cream. Comes before the cat."