I feel like a fish somedays. Not like a trout or something swimming contentedly in the water. Something flopping unhappily on dry land.
My trunk muscles are poor and for some reason I notice it more in the last few years.
I lean over to grab Claren's leash or something, and I flop all the way on to the arm of my chair. If it weren't for the seat belt, I am sure I would do some damage.
I have sat here on the couch – safe from flopping –for more than an hour trying to come up with some humorous twist to make this sound less sad.
I started writing about poor Charlie the sunfish, who lived under a dock at a vacation house we frequented in New Hampshire. Charlie must have been caught 100 times and released by me, my siblings and cousins.
That did not pan out, not yet anyway, but now that I am thinking about him, you may see more of him here just yet. Even though the last time I saw him, he was flying into a tree from about 50 feet away. Not sure how I compare to that.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
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2009
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June
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- Michael Phelps, you are now on notice
- Too tired to file for disability
- Not as bad off as Charlie
- I hate my wheelchair
- Macs and baseball
- My left foot sucks
- Should have stayed in bed
- Never has fatty mass sounded so good
- Can't sit forever
- Fear and self-loathing in Falls Church
- Cast party
- Walking away our troubles
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June
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2 comments:
so the fish could fly? or did he have a little help?
mtc
I am glad you asked.
The last time we were there, right upon arrival, we were like: Let's go catch Charlie. We probably used bread on a hook, and sure enough he took the bait. Unfortunately, he swallowed the hook.
We could not get it out so we brought the fish around the house to where an uncle was unloading the cars still. He got the hook out and then pitched Charlie toward the lake. Charlie flew a little higher than intended and hit some tree branches right above the lake.
We never found a corpse, so he might have survived.
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