Sunday, August 7, 2011

Steroids not raging.

"Orion, if I keep these steroids up and stay being down in the dumps, you're going to get fat."
I'm sitting on the couch in my bedroom eating my sandwich, one bite for me, one bite for my cute dog who keeps giving me kisses.
"I have twelve days left."
He licks my face.
I pull off a piece of crust.
"I hate feeling down in the dumps." Take a bite. Hand him a piece. "You'd think I had my fill during the Dark Ages. Good thing I know this is just medically induced."
Licks face.
"We have to remember to eat too."
Take a bite, give him a bite.
"I tend to get unmotivated. We should make a list of everything I know to do when I'm down in the dumps and tape it to the fridge."
"You want this last bite of ham?"
He does. Shocker.
"I like seeing you happy. So just remind me every day to take you to the dog park. That'll fill time, keep me busy, I'll see you happy, then indirectly get distracted from feeling like crying, and hopefully you'll be all tired and snuggly, so benefit from you being my dog too when I'm down in the dumps."
He licks my face.
"I'm all out of food you know."
Licks my face.
"See? That's why you're my best friend dog. I'm so smart getting you."
Crawls on my lap.
"Orion, I may have wanted that ovary. You have the freaking pokiest elbows."
I adjust.
"Well, thanks for keeping me upbeat on my lunch break. Let's go make coffee and see if that can help for the rest of the day. How many days of this do I have left?" I roll off the couch.
"12. Right. Thanks buddy." We walk down the hall.
"You want some peanut butter?"

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