Isn’t it weird getting sick in the summer? It’s like you wake up and it’s 100 degrees outside, kids are running and laughing, dogs are barking, your neighbor (a.k.a. Charon, Boatman of the Lower Apartments) is bashing his speedboat into the sides of his garage under your living room, but you can’t breath out of your nose and your throat hurts.
Does. Not. Compute.
How did I get sick in the summer, I wonder? I think I figured it out. James is the editor of Dear Santa, Let Me Explain…, an upcoming illustrated anthology that will feature true tales of holiday disaster from lots of writers, including yours truly and my good friend, Jay the Bold. We all had lunch the other day. Perhaps James snuck a home fry from my plate with his sickipoo fork when I turned away to yell at the waiter for putting bacon in my water.
Don’t worry, though, James. I totally needed a work-from-home day anyway. When I’m at work, I can’t enjoy the simple pleasures that make my day so complete, including but not limited to loafing around in boxers, listening to my newly-created Miles Davis station on Pandora Internet Radio, instant messaging with the rest of the world that doesn’t work for an evil, lock-down, big brother robot graveyard.
If only I could get Charon’s minion ferry friends to stop talking about boobs outside my window, being home sick in the summer wouldn’t be so bad.