Caregiver

Sure, if I'm drinking a bottle of warm bourbon out on the concrete patio while my roommate's great aunt sunbathes in her 50's era bikini, talking about soluble fiber or god knows what because a bead of sweat has defied gravity and found its way out of her leathery stomach wrinkles, taking with it my complete and undivided attention, I AM going to get that weepy, dippy, drippy, happy feeling. That's how I'm wired.

Sure, if I plant my tomatoes, my string beans, my carrots, my cucumbers, my bell peppers, my parsley, my oregano, my basil, my poppies, and my cilantro in the cracks in the hard-packed dirt behind the baseball diamond, I AM going to check for sprouts every day. That's my understanding of nature.

Don't fuck with me. I work in a nursing home.
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