Write about something that has been: recycled.
Hrmm. So maybe Max wasn't sick originally after all? Maybe I brought this cold into the house? And now he's getting it from me? And I'm giving it to Kat as well?
Still on the road to recovery. It would be nice if I could at least get healthy before it fully hits Kat, if it ends up doing that. Ideally we'll all get better together, but... you know how these things can go.
Afternoons seem to be my best time, so I took advantage of it to take Max into Penticton to run a couple errands and give Kat a break. This morning I was supposed to go out and take pictures but I wasn't really feeling up to it. Plus it was cloudy out, so I wasn't feeling super inspired.
Hoping to switch picture day to later in the week, assuming everyone starts feeling better soon.
He stands on the stage, only a microphone on a worryingly thin stand separating him from the audience. The show has been going on for a while, it is late, they are drunk, and they are growing rowdier and more vocal by the second.
And they are waiting for him to speak. To entertain them. Make them laugh, in ways that the four comedians who came before him had not. To bring their night to a delightful, or at the very least acceptable, conclusion.
He remains silent, though. His thoughts are racing each other around in dizzying circles but none manage to escape from behind his lips. He scans the room, swallows hard. It is an effort to not look back over his shoulder, seeking escape.
Something. He has to say something. Just start and the rest will follow.
But let us be honest for a moment. If it is not too uncomfortable for you. For it is not the opening that is the problem. He knows this. It is all that follows.
All that stale, unoriginal, recycled material he calls his routine.