something as it pertains to something it was.
She beamed when I nodded, and I knew that I’dsomehow chosen right even though I didn’t know what the peewadden she was talking about, and I was sure, if I’d tried,
really hard
and
for a very long time
, I could not have come up with a more butt-numbing topic.
JonPaul and Jay D. came over, grinning.
“We got a beauteous subject, Kev; Crosby laughed at first, but then he signed off on it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Exploring the possibility of a link between the World Series and voter turnout in presidential elections,” Jay D. said proudly.
“You know, like, if an AL team wins, does that mean more Democrats will show up at the polls, or,” JonPaul explained, “will Republican voting habits change if the NL team wins?”
“That’s not about the government, you moron. And it doesn’t even make sense.”
“It has to do with the executive branch; we’re golden,” JonPaul said.
“You’re just jealous because we’re going to spend a week cutting and pasting World Series highlights into a PowerPoint presentation,” Jay D. said, smirking. “What’re
you
doing?”
I studied the floor and mumbled, “The analysis of how something about the census something interacts with the something and pertains to something.”
They snorted, punched my arm and left me with Katie, who had been rereading her notes and probably hadn’t even noticed JonPaul and Jay D.
“You don’t look so good, Kevin.”
“I …” I would rather die than work with you on this monkey butt of a project, is what I wanted to say. But I heard myself saying, “Look, Katie, it’s probably not fair that you got stuck with me, because I have … some medical issues that might prevent me from, er, living up to my part of the project. It’s just too soon to tell—we’re waiting on test results and some studies in Germany that have to be concluded.”
“Really?” She looked intrigued, which was new, because Katie usually walks around with this distracted expression on her face, like she’s busy figuring the square root of the prime number closest to the gross national product. “I’m fascinated by medical mysteries.”
“Well, that’s what this is, all right. No one can figure out what’s going on. We’ve been to an endocrinologist, a cardiologist, a neurologist, an osteopath,a Reiki practitioner, an energy healer, a physical therapist and a physiatrist, because they”—I paused meaningfully—“specialize in chronic pain management.”
She gasped. I’d had no idea until that very moment what a great audience Katie Knowles was.
Note to self: Katie is smarter than a NASA computer, but wuh-hay too trusting for her own good. Excellent.
I was feeling pretty lucky right then that JonPaul is a total hypochondriac who’s always worried that he’s coming down with something rare and dangerous. I could rattle off the names of all those different kinds of doctors like I was a fourth-year medical student because we spend a lot of time entering his alleged physical ailments in medical website search engines.
Katie leaned forward, and I whispered the many problems I’d been suffering, which had led to the diagnosis of chronic, degenerative, relapsing-remitting inflammobetigoitis. “It started with night sweats, which caused the dehydration. Then I developed mood swings, hair loss and cotton mouth. And, of course, there’s the sensitivity to light, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, dry skin, loss of appetite and frequentthirst, which were worrisome. But all that wasn’t nearly as bad as the muscle aches, migraines, gastric reflux, bleeding gums and mild to moderate confusion when fatigued.”
I figured all this was icky enough to make Katie want to keep her distance but not so bad that she’d wonder why I wasn’t in the hospital. Or quarantined.
She looked horrified. “Oh, you poor brave thing.”
I nodded sadly and tried to look brave. Brave and wan.
“I’d, well, you
She beamed when I nodded, and I knew that I’dsomehow chosen right even though I didn’t know what the peewadden she was talking about, and I was sure, if I’d tried,
really hard
and
for a very long time
, I could not have come up with a more butt-numbing topic.
JonPaul and Jay D. came over, grinning.
“We got a beauteous subject, Kev; Crosby laughed at first, but then he signed off on it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Exploring the possibility of a link between the World Series and voter turnout in presidential elections,” Jay D. said proudly.
“You know, like, if an AL team wins, does that mean more Democrats will show up at the polls, or,” JonPaul explained, “will Republican voting habits change if the NL team wins?”
“That’s not about the government, you moron. And it doesn’t even make sense.”
“It has to do with the executive branch; we’re golden,” JonPaul said.
“You’re just jealous because we’re going to spend a week cutting and pasting World Series highlights into a PowerPoint presentation,” Jay D. said, smirking. “What’re
you
doing?”
I studied the floor and mumbled, “The analysis of how something about the census something interacts with the something and pertains to something.”
They snorted, punched my arm and left me with Katie, who had been rereading her notes and probably hadn’t even noticed JonPaul and Jay D.
“You don’t look so good, Kevin.”
“I …” I would rather die than work with you on this monkey butt of a project, is what I wanted to say. But I heard myself saying, “Look, Katie, it’s probably not fair that you got stuck with me, because I have … some medical issues that might prevent me from, er, living up to my part of the project. It’s just too soon to tell—we’re waiting on test results and some studies in Germany that have to be concluded.”
“Really?” She looked intrigued, which was new, because Katie usually walks around with this distracted expression on her face, like she’s busy figuring the square root of the prime number closest to the gross national product. “I’m fascinated by medical mysteries.”
“Well, that’s what this is, all right. No one can figure out what’s going on. We’ve been to an endocrinologist, a cardiologist, a neurologist, an osteopath,a Reiki practitioner, an energy healer, a physical therapist and a physiatrist, because they”—I paused meaningfully—“specialize in chronic pain management.”
She gasped. I’d had no idea until that very moment what a great audience Katie Knowles was.
Note to self: Katie is smarter than a NASA computer, but wuh-hay too trusting for her own good. Excellent.
I was feeling pretty lucky right then that JonPaul is a total hypochondriac who’s always worried that he’s coming down with something rare and dangerous. I could rattle off the names of all those different kinds of doctors like I was a fourth-year medical student because we spend a lot of time entering his alleged physical ailments in medical website search engines.
Katie leaned forward, and I whispered the many problems I’d been suffering, which had led to the diagnosis of chronic, degenerative, relapsing-remitting inflammobetigoitis. “It started with night sweats, which caused the dehydration. Then I developed mood swings, hair loss and cotton mouth. And, of course, there’s the sensitivity to light, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, dry skin, loss of appetite and frequentthirst, which were worrisome. But all that wasn’t nearly as bad as the muscle aches, migraines, gastric reflux, bleeding gums and mild to moderate confusion when fatigued.”
I figured all this was icky enough to make Katie want to keep her distance but not so bad that she’d wonder why I wasn’t in the hospital. Or quarantined.
She looked horrified. “Oh, you poor brave thing.”
I nodded sadly and tried to look brave. Brave and wan.
“I’d, well, you
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