My left big toe is infected, somehow. In a normal body, it would be no big deal. But this body I have must make a show of everything. So it hurts to walk, and I keep thinking about the maskholes of yore while I stare at it and wish the pain away.
It’s like, if you can obtain a driver’s license to reduce the risk of killing a pedestrian, why wouldn’t you wear a mask at the grocery store? It might seem like a giant leap to go from toes to COVID, but only if your immune system is fine. The rest of us take this mental jog several times a day.
But I’m not angry. My brain just likes to fiddle around with things that don’t make sense. And people who shrug off their part in harming others do not make sense to me. I can wrap my irradiated brain around determining there’s nothing one can do. I cannot wrap my head around knowing what could be done and refusing to do it because…I don’t know. It’s not your job?
The sale of the Urbana house is underway, and the official closing got bumped a few days. We will not be attending the closing, so we have to get some documents together for the real estate attorney, and naturally that means hooking up the printer which is a whole thing. First we have to get it on the WiFi and then we have to pray to Gandalf the ink isn’t all dried up.
“But can’t you just sign it on your device and…”
No. I can’t, and I’m not explaining why again.
Thats all I have for now. Must find food.