With the dumpster in the driveway crying out, “Feed me; feed me.” , I felt compelled to go to the attic yesterday and throw a lot of stuff down. (What the heck is the correct punctuation for that sentence anyway?) After I had cleared out a lot of attic stuff, I felt pretty good; this morning I feel pretty achy. The backs of my legs especially. Then this morning was the first DST weekday morning and I felt drugged – and not with the kind of drugs that help the aches.
A couple of the folks at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse here have suggested that the cure is the hair of the dog that bit me, i.e., more filling of the dumpster. Well, you “couple of folks” , suppose you take your foldovers, open them up and fold them back over your noses. Obviously, I seem not to be in a cheery little mood. Especially since I watched a show titled “Hoarding: Buried Alive” last night and am now looking suspiciously at my stuff sitting here and there and on top of the first here and there.
Ack! I am staring at Cletus, one of the original “couple of folks” . . . and I know he is about to ask if I got a big enough dumpster. Yes, he stage whispered it to his companion, Floyd. And they are snickering. I don’t care if they have twinkles in their eyes, next time they are going to have super glue in their foldovers.