I could write a country song called “Vending Machine Imodium.” The only problem is there isn’t a poetic bone in my body. I may have to put the touch on Marissa Bergen to write it for me. I know she has the chops for such a song.
My paycheck job sent me to beautiful Sandpoint, Idaho yesterday. Somewhere along the way, I wound up with whatever plague Old What’s Her Face had earlier this week. I’ve got to stop sleeping with her.
My group was booked on a tour of the lake last night, and dinner in a nice restaurant. I skipped the tour and opted to put on all my clothes, crank up the heat, and crawl in bed. They saw some bald eagles along the shore too, so I missed out. I stayed in bed until I stopped shivering.
I met them at the restaurant, and there were…
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