Several people have stopped by my cube today to tell me my ficus tree looks awful and when am I going to get rid of it.
Did anyone bring it chicken noodle soup?
Did anyone offer to drive it to the hospital?
Has anyone asked me if I've considered grief counseling?
No. They walk by and they make their callous comments and they leave me here, with my grey tree, shrunken and feeble, dropping its leaves one by one.
The world is a cold and unfeeling place, my friends.
All the more so because Buddy Lewis has not been chosen as the next Wandering Golfer. I thumb my nose at Fine Living and all who are associated therein.