I’m sick. Mr. Lawrence’s newly replaced ignition broke. I’m working the late shift. I can’t get a hold of Doc. My phone is nearly dead. The pop machine wouldn’t take my dollar.
So, this is what I’m going to say if anyone asks me how I’m doing:
Be advised. I'm mean, nasty and tired. I eat concertina wire and piss napalm and I can put a round in a flea's ass at 200 meters. So why don't you go hump somebody else's leg, mutt face, before I push yours in.
I won’t say that to any of you, of course. I probably won’t say it to anyone. But it feels better to have Clint Eastwood’s voice in my head when I’m feeling puny. At least then I feel a little tougher.
Update: I'm feeling much better after some medication and the pop machine took my dollar the first time this afternoon. I'm sure I'll go home and fall apart, but at least I won't be cranky. For Doc's sake, cross your fingers.