instruments nom things to paint 070412 ... past "it's not accurate," she exclaimed. "why do we keep using it anyways? he doesn't feel warm at all! but it's in the red. his brother is a wreck, but green." "a high green," i cautioned, already knowing where this was going. "usually me and the boys are below the green level. we run cold." "these readings make no sense. we let them rule our lives, but how do we know they're even accurate?" she found the well worn groove of an instinctive argument. like the classic premodern refrain about the king's bad advisors being to blame when, truly, an autocrat by virtue of birth has no right actually being competent, the instrument is easier to blame than the reality of this fall's cursed health patterns. i tried to stifle my sigh, "neither of them are well. i think that's clear. they were up all night. they're paler than ghosts. hell it's not even 5pm on christmas_eve and they want to go to bed. even if the thermometre is wrong, they are sick." "it's just... it's just," her resolve to hold her original argument faltered, "it is always one thing. whenever it's time to see family, we're sick or they're sick or someone's sick." i sigh out loud this time. "the pandemic is still here -- and no i don't think that's what it is -- but there's also two declared epidemics. the damned viruses are out for us." 221224 what's it to you? who go blather from