Nothing makes one more grateful/thankful than catching a whiff of whining leaking from one’s brain like a tire with a nail. (Tire air always smells so rank too, like dried barf and erasers.)
I’m one of those people who loves life as long as it loves me back, but a hang nail can get me out of sorts. I’m a whiner. Well maybe I don’t whine as much as pout. If you’ve ever played cards with me, you’ve seen it. I mean, why won’t something as fickle as random chance let me win more than 0.5% of the time? It’s not like I play cards with 100 other people at once. (Of course there is the possibility that I suck at cards, but that’s loser talk.)
With Thanksgiving days away, I’m feeling a bit mushy–like I want to hug the cosmos and apologize for having a bad attitude about the last month of sick kids and wife. Due to quarantining them, taking lots of Airborne and demanding extra sleep, I’ve stayed mostly healthy so that I can continue to blog. (Sometimes I’m just so darn noble. Does anyone else smell barf and erasers?)
