Yeah, so yesterday my boss calls me about two hours after he'd been standing in my office and he says with a very very stern voice, "You want to tell me why you weren't at XXXX XXXXXX's psychiatry appointment?" There was a tinge of outrage with a hint of hysteria seasoning to taste, as well.
My response, "No no No no no!" because in the microuniverse's lifespan between his question and my answer, I realized that I had totally forgotten the appointment. Instead, I had Tweeted all day, fought sleep, didn't fight sleep, learned how to sleep (or at least snore) on my feet, went out to get lunch, and ate it all without a second's worth of realization that I had an appointment to go to.
I've since made amends (see my Twitter stream for details) and the Boss and me are buds again, but all today one alternative answer to his question has been buzzing around in my mind. "Because," I could have said, "I'm a gut-expanding middle-aged closeted homosexual who is working two jobs in order to live the life of one person, I'm off my meds, and I'm just really, really tired."
So a few minutes ago, coming in from said second job, I opened up my e-mail to discover that the second guy in our Friday-night D&D group has had a baby with his woman (in this case, wife). This is the guy who had gotten married a year or so ago. A guy who was hapy to get married and was looking forward to planning his future with the one he loves. Honestly. So yeah, in the time between, they made and gave birth to a baby.
And so I just thought I'd come and blog about it because I think one should somehow pay tribute to the death of ones dreams and hopes. It's respectful.
So RIP Alan's Heterosexuality. If you hadn't been so sickly in the first place, one of those dozens of babies made and born by your friends in your lifetime would have been yours.
Postscript; This post's title comes from the fact that after I lay my hands on them, I'll be alright.