Sweetie! Sweetie!

When the birds were singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” the other morning, I found that the universe was curling back around on itself, like uncooked bacon.

(Sorry for the re-send. Earlier version had a glitch)

Not afraid of much anymore: Goths. The curled, uncooked parts of bacon. My late wife’s ghost.

That about covers it.

On my morning walk with White Fang, the birds are singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” which is ironic since that’s a term of endearment I use with my daughters and girlfriend: sweetie.

As in, “So, sweetie, where do you want to eat tonight?” Or “Sweetie, does this look infected?”

Dating me is like dating Plato, if Plato was more of an unbridled idiot.

“Sweetie, where do you want me to put this bag of potting soil?”

You can imagine the range of answers I get to that.

So, when the birds were singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” the other morning, I found that the universe was curling back around on itself, like uncooked bacon.

You know, I have so many doctors, some are even friends: Dr. Steve. Dr. Ridge. Dr. Drew.

And I don’t have the nerve, as we’re chatting, to ask them, “Listen sweetie, about those uncooked parts of bacon…”

But everyone wonders …