So, when I picked Jack up from camp today, I noticed his hair was definitely off. A closer inspection revealed the aftermath of jaunty chops by unpracticed hands. His own? Indeed. When he finally fessed up, he admitted to having taken scissors to just-shorn locks while in bed at grandma's house last night. The look is vaguely serial killer, like someone who just does not know or care how his mop appears. If he's sweaty, I can brush things to one side, but otherwise, the equivalent of a lady growing out her bangs has just begun. Well, nothing is that arduous, but you get my drift. It's a good thing he's so handsome. I just got an email from a store I love pepping me up for my next weekend getaway. That kinda depressed me because the only thing on vacation is my ability to easily breathe; yes, my congestion has expanded and now includes my nose as well as my chest. Do you think antibiotics might foil the Hitler mustache chap-pattern I always get when I blow my nose for more than two days? Unlikely, but wouldn't that be a benefit.
Do you know what you can do with a lot of time on your hands? You can clean out your inbox as if you're gunned up on speed and sort through piles of darling art-work from your lovies and finally, with the mercilessness you've long needed for this task, recycle 80% of it with nary a twinge. You can also send so many emails to crappy, non-responsive customer service people that they finally get back to you and assure you that your subscription has been cancelled. You can actually scan most of your Twitter feed. And you can tire of every phone-based video game you once loved.
Harder to accomplish is Italian homework and ridding your mouth of the awful tinny, metallic taste your mouth takes on when ill; I've not met with success on either of those fronts today.