Time Out

I have sat down for a cigarette and some juice before I finish re-re-vacuuming my half-acre of house. And it occurs to me, I don't eat enough. In the past two years or less, I've lost twenty pounds avoirdupois. "Avoirdupois" sounds like "to have some peas." Which sounds good to me. Anyway--

I would eat--I do eat, a lot, when it's set before me. Or late in the afternoon when I get hungry, I cook something or heat up a can and eat all of it. When I run the microwave and the toaster at the same time, it blows a fuse and I have to go downstairs and flip circuit switches. And then I have to come upstairs.

The point is, like all old folks, I need someone to cook it and serve it to me, then go away and leave me alone. Maybe I could start eating at least one meal a day at a restaurant. That would involve ironing clothes, showering and dressing, getting there and back, and then the day would be over. All day for a meal. And then when would I run this wrist-straining vacuum cleaner? Middle of the night.

I once saw a science fiction film in which David Ogden Stiers played an alien from a culture where at age sixty, each person was obligated to pull the plug and go down the drain, so to speak. It may seem like a bright idea, except from the 60-year-old individual's standpoint.

I'm not really depressed. Just tired.

Maybe I could get "Mills own Whills."