Fried or scrambled

I can’t decide if my brain is fried or scrambled.  It is an unhealthy situation, I’m sure, when your brain resembles one form or another of cooked eggs.  Poached, perhaps, if I have water on the brain.

For some stinking reason, I can’t seem to talk my mind into making coherent statements aloud or processing thought patterns that I don’t begin myself.

In other words, as a conversationalist right now, I totally suck.

We finally figured out that I have had bronchitis for the past week or so.  That makes me feel a little better, because without an idea, naturally I was dying.  I can’t NOT die in a day, you know?  I’m too much of a death hag.

We’re moving to Corsicana.  No ifs, ands, or buts about it.  We’ve already put a deposit on a house, and Mikey already got a job there.  I’m going to try to start substitute teaching again.  That is, if I can rescue my brain from the recesses of decay.

Anyway….

Drama ho, party of one, signing off for now.

Garrit, you chicken, I love you,

PdC