@becsbuddy Do you think, this would elicit a complaintif I posted it And I realize I habe pr obably out-stsupided my ownself because I'm aware that there's some way t o send things to you that aren't made pblc, but haven't yet figured out how to do that. SUPRISESURPRISE!

Today I realized something, which is that when I get around to dying (which won't be any time soon because my To-Do list is so long), it will be self-inflicted. But don't worry! I'm not talking about suicide, but rather its cousin, Stupidicide. This is when you do something so stupid that the Universe dare not leave you unsupervised for so much as a second, and is growing weary because it takes so much energy that needs to be spent elsewhere. For example, I sleep in my socks because sleep will evade me if my feet get cold. I usually have only black socks (because when every sock you have is the same, losing one doesn't matter, whereas if you have a pair of decorated socks, when one disappears, the remaining sock is doomed, and has only 2 choices: spend the rest of his life polishing your furniture; or hie itself to the nearest waste receptacle and join the other things that have become useless.
But despite knowing these brutal truths, I succumbed to the desire to wear something other than solid black and bought far too many pairs of striped socks with kitties. The background of these socks is still black, so I have exercised some restraint (which clearly was insufficient to adequately offset the danger posed by the contrast between the black background and the bright neon yellow, pink, and turquoise of the socks). So, heeding the call of nature in the wee small hours of the morning (before Mr. Sun has deigned to grace us with his presence) and remaining in my sleep stupor, I emerged from my bed and proceeded down the well worn path to the bathroom, and became dimly aware that something was drastically different from the previous excursions. I became vaguely aware of some bright stripes where my feet should be, and I couldn't outrun them, so I tried to kick them away. This, of course, didn't have the desired effect. Instead, it made me start to lose my balance, and if I had not been accompanied by my trusty cane (which I sometimes forget to invite along on these excursions), I might have fallen and hit my head on the lavatory, toilet, or bathtub. These bathroom fixtures have such boring, sedentary, uneventful lives that they may welcome the sound of an ambulance's siren. Alas, if they were expecting my ever-attentive husband to respond to my cries for help, they would have to wait a few hours, because without his hearing aids, he can hardly hear at all, and after a full day of tending to me, he is bone-tired. He has always fallen asleep just as soon as his head hits the pillow and can stay in that position until the time to wake up the next morning, hopefully getting a well- deserved break. So, this is what I mean by Stupidicide. I don't know if Mr. Webster has added him to his book yet.