It's not that I like drama. I don't invite drama into my life, but it comes, just like it does with everyone else on this planet. Except for some lives, it's seems to barge in more than others.
Some invite it, others just receive without desire. Then there are the folks who lead the most boring, safe lives out there, leaving them with no idea what a drama filled life even feels like. They don't take chances for happiness, love and success. They live vicariously through their television set.
I'll tell ya, having a little drama right now would be more entertaining than lying here making sloths jealous of our positions on day 4 of the flu.
Our kitchen looks as though we were a couple of teenagers who had friends over for a Friday night good time. There are emptied, abandoned faux ice-cream containers, barren pop cans, numerous dirty glasses, spoons and mugs littering the counter tops, and remnants of cold and flu remedies; shiny, yet disheveled, depleted and left to be thought of no more.
Someone should clean that shit up.
Yes, on first glance it could look like there was a big whoop-de-doo, but in truth, it's just 3 days evidence of 2 people unable to keep up with the demands of a somewhat tidy house.
Even my t-shirt has reminders of the meal we ordered in; Swiss Chalet dipping sauce drizzled down the front, in blotches of 'I don't really give a fuck'. First however, they had to have a running start down my chin before taking that leap onto the clean white cotton.
This, I suppose, is how the old folks feel. When you get to a point in your life where you feel crappy all the time, who cares if there's food strewn down the front of your shirt?
Certainly Papi doesn't care. If you could see that hair!
I'm one to talk. Mine's looking like Cosmo Kramer's right about now.
At least we had showers. Not because we could smell each other, due to our noses being so plugged with mucus. But none-the-less, we had lovely 'I can barely lift the soap' cleaning sessions together. I would rest my head on mi esposo's shoulder while Papi would lovingly envelope me in those gorgeous tattoo clad arms, gently rubbing my back with soap.
I could fall asleep there.
Ahh ... the sight of my love, naked and perfect. Soft skin to match the downy personality of this teddy bear of a human being who, to those non-risk takers, looks like a hard-core biker.
However, we don't have enough hot water to entertain the thought of standing there for eternity. In this house, there's only enough hot water to get you clean. No monkey business.
Not that we could find the energy to get down to it.
Unquestioningly, we wouldn't be able to make it a double 't' hott time, during this phase of, "Could you pass the kleenex?"
The most drama we have is being forced to get up to use the washroom. Every step is like walking up hill, both ways, with concrete shoes on.
No, there is nothing interesting going on in our house.
I love that pale sickly person sitting there in the tandem La-Z-Boy.
That's all I have the energy for right now.