Amy Qualls is a quilter and Drupalist based in Portland, Oregon.
Life'll kill ya
2:45 a.m. leave note for spouse, saying, "Trash needs to be taken out, and there's stuff in the master bedroom that needs to go out with it. Didn't want to wake you, so wake me up before you go."
(This free-association cheezwhiz music moment is brought to you by the non-word "go-go.")
7:13 a.m. Trash out to curb. Much yawning, contemplation of annoyingly bright sunrise, thoughts of replacing cats with lower litter-producing models.
7:20 a.m. Lure of "just a quick email check" plus "momentary check of CNN" derailed when unusually-large number of dead people are mentioned on CNN.
7:21 a.m. Amidst discussion of semi-urgent need for new razor blades, communicate to newly-showered spouse that both John Ritter and Johnny Cash had died. Response from traditionally pragmatic spouse:
"Well, Johnny Cash was something like three hundred and eighty-two years old, so I guess that's not a surprise. Wasn't John Ritter a bit younger, though? What happened?"
"Slight flaw in his aorta."
"That's a bit difficult. Yeah, there's something about the aorta - what with pumping large quantities of blood through the chest cavity - makes flaws a little difficult to deal with."
I shrugged. "And yet, the Pope still isn't dead."
"Yeah, what is he, something like five hundred and forty-six?"
"Nah, at least two millennia." I prepared to get back in bed, but got called back by his next question.
"So what would happen when he died?"
"College of Cardinals would elect a new pope. Probably Latin American, given the mass of Catholicism down there and the fact they've never had a pope."
"Any chance of an American one?"
"Not until American priests stop touching little kids, no."
7:30 a.m. Sit down to computer, begin writing out post.
7:40 a.m. Stop writing for a moment. Recognize that Johnny Cash and John Ritter dying within hours of each other, forced to share co-headlines for all eternity, would have been perfect comic material for Warren Zevon, who unfortunately had the bad taste to die earlier this week.
7:45 a.m. Decide there's nothing more to be said. After all, Mr. Zevon had it right: life'll kill ya. Decide that your friends will undoubtedly leave pithy, wordy, or at least interesting comments while you sleep.