My mother told me that in the great flu epidemic of the 1920's, she saw caskets stacked on top of each other at the Charlotte Train Station. You have to be aware that this virus kills people.
Sergay and Eliza performed as Patch and Pepper in 101 Dalmations Friday night and then on Saturday we went to the Charlotte St. Patrick's Day Parade.
The terrorists came secretly in the dark, dressed in black from head to their little steel toed black boots with which they kicked me in my ribs, behind my knees, in my chest. They stuffed cotton in my throat and taped my mouth with invisible duct tape. They poured poison in my ears as they did Hamlet's father. I was hit by a load of bricks they dumped from their land rover.
No matter, the doctor said, that I didn't take the flu shot. It worked in only 36% of the cases. And the swab from my nose which tested negative, works only 50% of the time. He gave me three kinds of medicine: tamaflu, amoxicillin and cough syrup with hydrocodone. I lie on the couch and drink orange juice and then I lie on the couch and drink orange juice. They say medicine is not a science; it is an art. As we learn more, it seems that science is not a science.
There is a new pope, St. Francis from Sao Paolo.
The Flycatcher is still sitting on her nest, warming her eggs.
There is snow in the mountains.
Tonight there will be a hard freeze.
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