Craving a Coke and Thinking of Pizza

It is gray and dreary outside. And cold. Did I mention cold? I am sitting here in red wool socks, purple striped flannel pajama bottoms, a long gray nightshirt that comes below my knees, a long-sleeved denim shirt over that, and a baseball hat that once sported slogan buttons, but is now reduced to plain worn khaki.

And I am in desperate need of a Coke.

Which is why I am thinking of pizza. I don't really want pizza, but they will also bring you a Coke. Is that ridiculous or what? It's just that I don't want to change my clothes. I feel like a bag lady today and I am truly impressed by my outfit. Remember the old cowboy song? Something like: I see by your outfit that you are a house slut, let me put on everything in my rag bag and be a house slut, too. Well, maybe I've mis-remembered a few of the words...

And I have been writing, though not as much as hoped. A Coke would probably jumpstart me, though. Is two weeks on this damn medicine enough to let me swig carbonated brown sugar water? I hope so, because when I finish this, I am going to get in my car and drive to the Sonic for a Coke -- just as I am. Without one plea. But that thy Coke was bottled for me... Sorry -- had a brief Baptist hymnal flashback.

I said I was desperate.

But for the rest of the day I will dive back into finishing this thing. It is still flowing smoothly, frighteningly easy for this point in the story. I just hope I don't Coke...er, choke.