It’s two days before Thanksgiving, and I should be writing something so that I can get paid, since I haven’t written a single word since catching the plague almost a month ago at the last Dutch Hop, aka “The Local Super Spreader Event Where Unmasked Old People Breathe On Your Food and Filthy Toddlers Wipe Their Noses On The Tablecloths And The Polka Music Is Loud Enough To Hear Back In The Old Country” but instead I’m making chili and Fred is drinking Jack Daniels in orange juice and watching Supernatural reruns on Netflix, because our brains have been parboiled by this virus from the third circle of Hell. I simply do not have the energy to write about plants that only grow on south southwest facing dunes in one corner of the Nebraska Sandhills or a hotel haunted by a murdered midget or endangered rodents or any other nonsense that I cannot muster the motivation to give a flying pug about right now. If someone could get me an IV drip of espresso, I might be able to tackle Mount Washmore over there on the loveseat before Christmas.
I’d better get something turned into my editor soon, though, because the cats have seen both my bank balance and the level of food left in their bucket, and I caught them googling recipes for Cat Lady Surprise this morning.
You can come join this shit show, but wear a mask and wash your damned hands, unless you want to spend the next three weeks puking until your head spins around when you’re not sleeping 14 hours a day.
Cat Hoskins 