So, I’m going to freestyle this by voice to text. I’m lying on my daybed, with the windows open and three fans staged throughout my tiny house. It is comfortable and cool despite the fact that it got to 85 today. It’s 79 in the house or maybe lower by now. Humidity did not get above 40% in the house all day, which I know because I have a cute little gadget which tells me the high and low temperature and humidity in a given 24 hour time span. I’ve eaten a funny dinner of goat cheese and toast. I have a glass of cold water by my side. I’m on day 4 of a viral episode which I’m fairly certain is what we call, my virus, that is to say HHV-6. I don’t feel very well but on the other hand, like Yossarian in the hospital, I’m not very sick. It could be worse, in which case they could treat me; and it could be better in which case I could go home. Or, since I am home, I would get up and move around and maybe even fold the clothes which have been sitting in the laundry unit since Saturday. Thankfully, they are dry. So I’m lying here thinking about complaining. Or not complaining.

I’m remembering that 21 1/2 years ago I was given 6 months to live by a doctor who died himself within the year. I am thinking of all the diseases that they thought were causing my decline which I turned out not to have. I am remembering Joe Brewer, the doctor who saved my life by explaining that I was just hypercoagulable and I needed blood thinner. I’m remembering my son submitting me for the Luckiest Kansas Citian contest, which I didn’t win but which submission resulted in an article being written about me that got me a lot of business and a fair amount of fame in Kansas City. And I’m thinking about complaining, or, about not complaining.

It’s the third day of the 66th month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.

Taken one morning this spring near the tiny house community in which I live.