Back from the Dead

What started out seeming like a hangover (aka... a typical Sunday) turned into what seemed like a flu turned into what seemed like a gay doctor telling me that I do, in fact, have pneumonia. Pneumonia isn't the stuff that they put into Windex. Pneumonia is what I believe to be the code word for "AIDS" whenever a celebrity dies of natural causes at the age of 38.

I spent Monday in bed, casually taking care of some loose ends with work but getting sicker. Mom came over Monday night and stocked my kitchen with club soda, Goldfish and Saltine crackers, and chicken noodle soups o' plenty.

Tuesday morning, I woke up tossing and turning from a dream consisting of a montage of my life for the past year. It wasn't the cool stuff, but more of the stressful piss-me-off stuff. I had a fever and apparently it was giving me sweat-lodgeish dreams and hallucinations, but none of the wisdom for resolution. My cat was eating away at my leftover soup and crackers on the night stand. I didn't eat or drink anything Tuesday. I didn't get out of bed for anything. From my bed, I called and ordered a used washer dryer set. Wednesday it was delivered and installed. I got out of bed only to answer the door and write the check - sort of like Vegas, when I think about it. I didn't eat or drink anything that day either. This helped because I didn't have to go to the bathroom, which meant I didn't have to get out of bed. Genius!

I didn't actually see the washer/dryer until Mom came over to take me to the hospital a few hours later. I was feeling a little better but was, for the most part, not very functional; like my cock on six Jack Daniels.

"You see, Mom, that's Kenny. He dies in every episode."

I stayed with Mom for a couple of nights. Our television viewing habits are different. She likes Hallmark and Lifetime and I still watch a shit ton full of cartoons. I came home today because I felt like using my new washer and dryer, making sure my cat was okay. I'm feeling a lot better, although not really up to going back over this blog and making it coherent. I'm going to go lay down now. Peace. Props to Marty for the Gatorade this afternoon.

From an advertisement (Click HERE for the actual ad):

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From UrbanDictionary.com:

Upper Decker:
The act of defecating in the upper tank of the toilet. When the next poor unsuspecting person flushes the toilet they get a bowl of beef stew. the upper decker is a weapon of terror and should only be used on people who deserve it.

My friends x-girl friend had a party and she left whith some other dude who looked like the fonz "Heyyy!". So I took it upon myself to leave her an upper decker