The Stars and the Cookie Jar

I get to have surgery.

For those of you still bored from last time, allow me to register my astonishment that the debatable skill of surgeons at Waltham Deaconess bought me so many years.

For those of you who may be alarmed, concerned, or some similar: don't worry, it's very thoroughly researched, and a specialist known around the country is apparently doing it. He's Board Certified in many, many things, including slicing people open and rebooting them.

For the women I always meant to kiss, and never got up the nerve: if I live, do me a favor, pony up, will you? [Yes. I just waxed melodramatic. Lock me in a garret, strew the room with bad verse, and sue me.]

For my boss: I told you I was sick. See? See?

And now I'm going to sleep for two hours before work. Then I may curse at the Holy One, blessed be He, or at least His design team.