Want to go for a drive?

Ferd is having noodles, if I can reach them–my arm might not stretch that far anymore–and I’m having whatever is in front of the refrigerator. I don’t care if it is yogurt or old string beans. I have the blues, and sometimes cooking is the best thing for it, and sometimes I can’t even look at a fork much less the frying pan. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I think I just need to be sent to that kind of camp where people get massages and pep talks. I’ll be back to at least fried eggs with toast by tomorrow night.
Ferd woke up in the middle of the night last night and asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. Sometimes the world makes sense, and sometimes it doesn’t.

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