Day two of infection watch. Lovely to spend your day, staring down your gammy leg at the television, and hoping that the mighty mighty antibiotics are waging valorous warfare on the unseen bacteria in my shin. Against my vow of no (or least no overt) bitchery in this blog, I will openly profess how much this surely sucks. There, I said it. And I don't regret it. Staying off the leg isn't that easy either, being a quiet Saturday at the House, with only the Woman and I here. And she is sleeping because she doesn't feel on her game today, and that means none of the usual housefriends will fall into regular orbits around her until she is awake later. And I really miss D.

Yeah, fine.. you think of something worthy to write about, right now, then. And I doubt you want to hear me wax harmonious on the nature of my morning's flatulence.

"A philosopher went into a closet for ten years to contemplate the question, What is life? When he came out, he went into the street and met an old colleague, who asked him where in heaven's name he had been all those years.
"In a closet," he repied. "I wanted to know what life really is."
"And have you found an answer?"
"Yes," he replied. "I think it can best be expressed by saying that life is like a bridge."
"That's all well and good," replied the colleage, "but can you be a little more explicit? Can you tell me how life is like a bridge?"
"Oh," replied the philosopher after some thought, "maybe you're right; perhaps life is not like a bridge."

- Raymod Smullyan