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Fifty-nine not out. Though not making any presumptions about making it any further. My body has to work out how to give me a cancer that isn't essentially harmless soon.
Some cool presents from Catie and the kids. Phoebe gave me a frog made out of pompoms, Ernie gave me a pen with a big bit of rubber cheese on it, where a mouse came out if you squeezed it (how did he know?) and Catie got me a bobblehead of me. Or Keanu Reeves. Or David Ginola. Whichever one it was, it's a lot of fun. We've all been watching the American Office over the last few weeks so I guess she was inspired by Dwight.
But whatever happens to me the family will always have the Bobblehead me, who may be more handsome than I actually am, but even Oliver Cromwell didn't want a warts and all Bobblehead.
Maybe by the time I die the technology will have been developed to transfer my consciousness into the bobblehead and I can watch over my family, unable to speak, but able to bobble my head in appreciation or anger. Could be a good sitcom. Bobblehead Dad. Imagine having to silently watch your family moving on without you and all you can do is bobble your head. Catie's new boyfriend is drinking my malt whisky. Head bobbles off the body.
Alternatively maybe the sitcom/Sasha Baron-Cohen film is that a man wakes up one day with his ordinary head replaced by a bobblehead. How does he cope with that? Would his friends and colleagues be able to resist bobbling his head/ What if his bobble head looked like a much too handsome version of his own head? Would people want to make love with him? How would the bobble head react during love making? I think if I was making love to someone who had a bobble head that would make the whole thing a lot more exciting. Or would it be better to be the one with the bobble head? What if both of you had a bobble head?
Anyway it's my birthday. You have to enjoy this bit even though it is clearly awful.
