Trots

Mark has been ill for the last few weeks. He's coughing and hacking, producing phlegm balls, and pretty much sounding like an episode of the walking dead. It isn't pleasant because he expects me to be his Florence Nightingale. The reality is that I am a horrible nurse, more like Florence Nightmare. I'm more likely to yell at him to stop coughing than get him a cup of tea. Anyway, I was walking Chandler around the block last night and I didn't feel very good. My stomach was churning, my guts were gassy, and I was wishing I could just stop and poop on my neighbor's lawn like Chandler did. The first thought to go through my mind was that I was getting sick like Mark. Just what I need, twenty days before the big move. As I continued walking while clenching and hoping that I could make it to the house and toilet, I realized that I was not getting sick. My innards were all screwed up because of Mark. For years I have complained that Mark was making me fat with his spectacular cooking skills. I have always made it a point to tell him that I did very well before he came along. I was quite capable of feeding myself. But something has changed. I have lost that self preservation knowledge. I  cannot feed myself anymore. Because Mark was not feeling well, he had not cooked for me in a few days, and I was horrified when I did an inventory of what I had eaten that day. Breakfast was four donuts from Krispy Kreme. Two of them Boston cream, one jelly filled, and one glazed. Lunch consisted of a Big Mac and a bag of French fries. And finishing off the day, three slices of pepperoni pizza from Times Square Pizza. Egads, no wonder I was doing the green apple quick step back to the house.