Momnesia

Those With Compromised Immune Systems Should Avoid Flu Victims, Experts Say

AUGUSTA, GA - So Scott is moping around the house, managing to make spraying Lysol look like the most depressing activity on the planet.

"How are you feeling?" he asks me, for the 22nd time today, from the doorway.

"Sick. You?" I reply, cheerfully.

"Fine."

"Okay."

I know he has to be very careful due to his bout with TTP last year (a bout in which he kicked TTP's ass, I'd like to remind y'all), but he doesn't have to walk around as though Death is tailing him like B.O., poking him repeatedly in the ass with his sickle, you know?

"How are you feeling?" he asks me five minutes later.

"The same as I felt five minutes ago," I tell him. "What's bothering you, honey?"

"I'm wearing a mask," he said.

"I see that."

"In my own house."

"Well, technically, it's someone else's house. We just rent it," I remind him, winking an eye at Death as I borrow his sickle for a moment.

"Ugh! You know what I mean. I don't like it."

"Well... Can't be helped," I shrug.

"I'm just doing what the doctor said," he shrugs. He looks at the floor, conveying in that one expression a convincing portrayal of an innocent man sent to the gallows. Draaaamaaaaa! Poke him again, Death!

"Is hovering something else he told you to do?"

"I'm worried about you!"

"You're going to worry yourself sick," I say.

"I feel fine!"

"Psh! It won't be instantaneous. It will be the totality that wears you down," I roll my eyes. "Now calm down."

"Yeah!" Emmie pipes up beside me.

"I'll be fine. I'll just do what the doctor says."

"Like hover?"

(SLAM!)

He'll be back.


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