What the bed said to me last night when I was asleep: You have jarred your back, I will try to comfort you but I can’t help if you keep shuffling around. Be still. Be calm.
What I do all night: Shuffle around.
What my head does today: Hurt.
What I take for my headache: Nothing, the pills make it worse. I hear they can give you headaches instead of relieving them.
Things I want my kids to know: All the things I do.
What I want them to be when they grow up: Good people.
Things I will never do with my kids: Take them to MacDonalds.
My thoughts when I tip my head back to gargle with the mouthwash, trying not to jar my back even more: That poor fly has been stuck on the ceiling for days, he must have landed there and gotten stuck on the condensation that forms there after we shower. He made all the effort to fly upside down and land there and look where it has gotten him. I should wipe him off with some tissue and bury him in the wash of the toilet, but that is no way to discard of something that once lived, not even a fly.
What I give my wife when I get home because she has had a bad day: Flowers, gerberas mainly, and two wooden reindeer for the TV stand at Christmas.
What she does: Cry, but smiles while she does it.