Spontaneous Explosions

 I am tentatively sitting here and hoping to not spontaneously explode. Not the spontaneous human combustion sort of explosion. Rather, it's the sort of explosion normally meant for the porcelain god. Yes, it's spontaneous but the fire is purely internal.

Sure, I feel well enough to bastardize a "symptoms of depression" chart. My goal for the day is to drive to the store to get dog food; we're literally scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Part of me thinks it would be a good idea to take the truck. It's meant for hard-working men doing hard-working jobs. In other words, we can clean it out with a hose should I explode.

An image comes to mind of Better Half hosing the brown out of it while the gas company workers (laying new gas lines on our block) look on.

"Hey, that's a lot of mud," one might venture.

"Mud? Oh, it's not mud. My wife exploded in here," might be his likely reply.

I lost 12 pounds, not that it puts a dent in anyone that is morbidly obese. Most of it is water weight due to dehydration. I kept very little down. My caloric intake yesterday was 160 - two small cans of ginger ale. A part of me tells me I should go in for an IV. The majority of me doesn't want to see that ER again for a while. COVID is slamming our county.

 Mission accomplished. Plus put gas in car (20 miles to empty), prescription picked up (necessity), soft food bought (go bland or go home!), and replacement pads acquired (I used up my mother's). All without any spontaneous explosions. Sure, it took forever and my waning strength was tapped running up the stairs to grab a purloined avocado from the hound, and I thought I left those meds in the cart, and Better Half is feeling like crap (non-gastric). I wish we had a bathtub to relax in.

Then again, with how this week is going, I'd explode in there.