I Was Gonna Eat That
As far as material possessions are concerned, I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted that is worth having, with two significant exceptions.
Firstly, my $800/month eye drops that have to be delivered from a specialty pharmacy are late, as usual. My bottle ran dry yesterday morning, and I would like to have some new ones right now, please, and damn you. I don’t know what the problem is, but the specialty pharmacy consistently has issues getting them to me on time.
I’m supposed to take one drop in each eye four times a day, but I only do so twice or maybe thrice daily because, when you attempt to use them as directed, they won’t last a whole month. The bottle almost always dispenses two drops per squeeze. I’ve experimented quite a bit, trying different squeezing pressures and so on. I can consistently deliver zero drops, two drops, or a torrent of all the drops at once. The single-drop option eludes me. For $800 a bottle, they should put more drops in there and quit making a game of things.
The other item I long for is a French baguette. And I had one, once upon a time this afternoon. I walked all the way uptown to the Metropolitan Bakery off Rittenhouse Square to get it (along with some salted French butter).
Every couple of blocks along the way there and back, gangs of thugs stopped me, demanding the password. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s, “Go, Birds!” You can get away with “Go, Eagles!” but that response may require a secondary form of identification, such as singing the “Fly, Eagles, Fly” anthem or knowing the shibboleth.
After a couple of miles through the Green Gauntlet, I was well ready to indulge in some high-end bread and butter. Unfortunately, while crossing the very last street on the way to my front door, I dropped my baguette in the road. Right in the middle of the filthy crosswalk. For a brief moment, I considered kissing it up to Heaven but thought better of it. Dirty, dirty, dirty.
Go, Iggles.