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15 September I'm watching Martha Stewart demonstrate how to make mashed potatoes using a potato ricer. Revolting. There is just nothing right about that! You'd think that Martha, Martha of all people on the planet earth would know that mashed potatoes should have lumps, must have lumps, dammit, or there is just no damn point to them. There are certain things that I feel very strongly about and will brook not arguments, and that is that the fact, the solid and absolute fact that mashed potatoes must have lumps. And chocolate pudding, too. There is not point in instant pudding, because there can be no lumps, and Potato Buds are an abomination unto the Lord.
My heavens, cough cough cough. Or, as Tracing says, "Coff coff coff!" And cough some more. I have me a beauty case of bronchitis. I only had a cold for a day, really, because it turned into the plague so quickly, so it never occurred to me that I'd develop it, but nineteen years of smoking makes chronic bronchitis the gift that keeps on giving. I don't feel sick, I am not uncomfortable or unhappy, I just sound like a dying seal and am terrifying the people that I work with, would rear back in horror from the gasps and rasps and horks and wheezes. "Is it catching?" they cry, eyes wide, covering their mouths. No, it isn't. And no, I don't take anything for it. I just ride it out, baby, like everything else. It lasts just as long with medication as without, just gotta wait for it to run its course. Its very noisy, loud, window-rattling course.
How do you feel about medication? What is there only one right way to do? And we're still talking about self-knowledge, running out of time, new movie recommendations, what we need to be happy, our personal angels, our offices, vocal tics, and bad movies we love.
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