I Feel Ill

*wrinkles up nose*

I feel yuck-o. I dunno what's wrong with me, but I feel sick and queasy and tired and blah. It's early, not even 9, and I'm beat. I think I'm dying.

Dahahahahaha!

*snarfle*

So before I moved into my smashing little house I ordered a lot of dog toys for Winston. I ordered them based on how much they entertained me. When I moved and finally had Winston living with me I discovered that he and I have different taste. For example, I got him this chew toy that looks like a big clown smile, big red lips and smiling white teeth. It's somewhat disturbing, but it's a funny idea. When the dog chews on it, he looks as though he has a big, stupid grin. I think it's all very amusing. Sadly, my dog disagrees. My favorite though was a rubber chicken. A rubber chicken! Come on! It's funny! Right? Riggght?!?! I think it's damned hysterical. Well, until the past few days the old boy hasn't thought so, but lately he's been into it. Smashing, no? It's funny to see little rubber chicken legs protruding from his mouth. The most snickerful thing is when he chews on it with just the right rhythm it sounds vaguely reminiscent of the Mr. Clean jingle. You know, *sings* "Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!" Don't act as though you don't understand me...
Yesterday at work our youngest doctor was making rounds and stopped at the bed of a (very) successful local business owner. The guy's retired, but he and his brother started a big burly chain of stores here in Santa Rosa I think, and now the chain is stretched over Northern California. Or something like that. It's big and lucrative, whatever... So I'm walking by to go check vitals on my patients or something and I hear said doctor singing the store's jingle to the patient. He's like "you've heard that one, right?" Naturally I laughed and looked at Trish to see if she was getting the whole situation. She was on the phone with I don't know who and was like "and now Dr. ____ is singing..." The poor guy blushed sheepishly, but it was too late, he managed to be irrevocably cute. It was too funny.

Hey, remember that psych patient that told me if I changed how I wore my hair he'd take me to dinner? I've dubbed him Norman Bates, but really he's not cool enough to be affiliated with Alfred Hitchcock. It was the best I could do in a pinch though. Anyway, poor Trish had the dubious pleasure of meeting our man Norman yesterday. I nearly cried laughing, but he told her he wanted to have coffee with her. Perhaps to sweeten the pot he explained that he gets passes from the psych hospital to venture outside periodically. They could go to Wolf's, he suggested. DAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

music: My Number, Tegan and Sarah