Tastes Like Chicken

I have put myself through a few operational tests, and, disregarding the flippant efforts of this blog, I have not lost the ability to think and write and accomplish the grandiose goals of meeting a haircut appointment, to forgo bargain-priced crap iced tea for the better stuff at retail, and to cradle my cat while he feigns hunger but truly means to gain a hug. (Life’s a bitch, then your cat puts his paw in your mouth just to see if you’re paying attention. Then he looks at me like I’m the weird one.)

 

Things, however, I have forgotten: how to properly operate my digital camera, which week is recycling week, how to install the right driver to make my printer work, the lyrics to “Fake Plastic Trees”, whether my famous chicken recipe requires thyme or parsley, precisely how old I am without counting, which foot I throw my weight on to make a slap shot, and the only thing that I still seem to still be in denial about: the true extent of work I need to do to make my home presentable once again. Some of these things can be resolved with referencing and experimentation, but they never had to in the past. Steer clear of Thorazine at all costs, my friends.