and so it goes
Then it seemed like there were too many chopped onions so I scraped most of those off too.
In other words, when I got done with my streamlining there wasn't much left except for the bread, three large coins of pepperoni, a slice of ham and lots of Italian dressing. It was pretty tasty, too.
When I finished that, I threw away the sandwich wrapper and the paper bag it came in, and in such a manner was kitchen cleanup accomplished.
I stirred up three tablespoons of sugar with three cups of water to make shaped ice cubes (I promised the kids I'd show them how to build an igloo). I put the ice trays in the freezer and then I read to them about the Inuits.
I explained how balmy and comfortable the inside of an igloo can be (30 degrees Farenheit). Warmer if the inside walls are lined with sealskin. And how the windows can be made with a block of ice, or a stretched flap of seal intestine. I'm not sure what point it is I'm trying to make here, except for one of my it-could-be-worse lectures (Don't complain when we keep the thermostat at 68).
Then I listened to my mp3 player and sewed up the torn seam in the teenager's overcoat. (Send me your tired, your weary, your mp3's. I'll listen.)
My gastroenterologist fired me, or I fired him. I can't remember; details get so blurry with time. He was always expecting me to show up and I was always disappointing him, so we decided the relationship wasn't working out for either of us and called it quits. You can do that when you're in remission and you're feeling all cocky and so forth.
It's not so conveinent, later, when the flare-up won't end and you have to schedule with a whole new doctor, someone who isn't at all familiar your charming perchant for tardiness or sheer absence in general.
As liberating as that might sound, the penalty is you have to start from scratch and go through the formalities of consults and baseline screenings and etc. all over again. All of which takes time, which is, needless to say, remarkably draining when you can't eat anything and your stomach refuses to be boiled into submission with a series of hot baths and extremely warm heating pads.
The moral to the story is: keep your appointments. Or something like that.