I suppose when a teenager asks how I am I shouldn’t answer with TIRED, NAUSEOUS, GASSY.  Just being honest.

I finally let the news out at work so I can walk around with my pants unbuttoned and complain about being tired, although neither of those is new things, but at least I have an excuse now.  It’s funny, or not, that most of the time when someone comes to me to say they’ve heard they immediately ask how old I am.  I’ll be 41 next month.  I’m a dinosaur.

I feel pudgy, but the scale says I’ve gained one-tenth of a pound, and that might just be the kitkat I had for breakfast, BECAUSE I CAN.

And now for the cute picture of the day.  The closet cat and the bunny that no one plays with anymore:


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