My mother works at a restaurant and sometimes brings home discarded bits of New York steak for me or the dog. Lately, it’s been for the dog. I was delighted that the frozen beef gave me an excuse to use my tools. Maybe there is something to guys being wired to like tools.
Sometimes I’m not sure if I own the dog or if it’s the other way around. I have to wipe its paws, pick up the mess from her random dumps around the house and all the rest. It’s like having a 2 year old or a mentally challenged person except posting pictures of food all over my mentally challenged kid’s face would be frowned upon.
The highlight of the day was this thing….
My stumpy cousin brought this over because his new place isn’t roomy enough for this spaceship. It’s slightly frightening when it does its thing because it makes me wonder what’s stopping it from crushing me like it would in some cheesy horror movie. I did an internet search for “massage chair death” and nothing alarming came up besides a 4-year-old who had his head crushed by one and a middle-aged woman who jumped to her death inside a shopping mall, hitting a guy sitting in a massage chair before she hit the floor. Even if it doesn’t decide to crush me I’m sure it can possibly malfunction while leaving me shackled in there like an electric chair.
It’s an upgrade from my old setup which was a folding patio lounge chair with a pillow. It also reclines to an almost horizontal position so I may not be doing much today.