The Couch Galaxy

I have seven more days glued to the couch, toes aimed toward the ceiling, before the first post-surgical evaluation of how my little fibula is doing.  Seven days to make good with life on my back.  Time in a Bottle may have been a hauntingly prescient song, but Time on a Couch pretty much sucks.  Here are a few things I can do to pass the day:

Thursday – Watch re-runs of Sex in the City until my eyes bleed.

Friday – Learn a new language.  I’m thinking Pig-Latin might be fitting for today’s distraction.  I’ll start with the common phrase, ipstick-lay on a ig-pay, and then feign my own sexist outrage over it.

Saturday – Memorize the Periodical Table, then break out that Little Genius Chemistry Set to invent the Auburn McCanta line of designer stink bombs.

Sunday – Knit a sweater … provided I learn to knit without poking myself with those sharp pointy needles.

Monday – Worry over that teensy-weensy little black hole they are expecting to make inside the Super Collider in Geneva — you know, that black hole some worry might swallow up the earth, along with this ridiculous couch on which I’m captured.  Whee-doggies!

Tuesday – Read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, concentrating on the red-necked spitting cobra with which I will SO relate about this time.

Wednesday – Do a one-legged happy dance because the galaxy still whirls and we’re one day closer to something other than life on a couch.

I’d be happy to take further suggestions for time-consuming activities.  There are still those wide-awake nights in which to occupy and amuse myself.  I promise to take it all under advisement.  Anyone?  Anything?


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