sick days

I'm stuck at home with a whopper cold and that makes living life somewhat difficult. The problem with missing work is that you are half-thinking about it the whole day. 

Time is ticking down at my soon-to-be old job and I'm not having any sentimental feelings about it whatsoever. When I was twenty-one I quit the newspaper and cried a little while leaving the building on my last evening there. I thought about the ending of the Mary Tyler Moore show, shutting out the lights and leaving the office. I said goodbye to the night editor and he wished me luck with all of my future endeavors. This was the same man who, two years before, ended a ten-minute rant about his job by asking me how old I was. I responded that I was nineteen. "Nineteen," he repeated in a high-pitched nasal tone, "When you are my age, don't work here!" I kind of wonder if he is still working at the Oregonian; ten years older with ten years of further resentment and anxiety. I never want that to be me. 

Today I passed a business that had two pigs nuzzling on its awning.

Pilsen Piggy Hug