The daughter of my friend @seanset joined Twitter today. This situation, in my warped mind, opened the door for all kinds of fun and pranks at his expense. Oh, what I had planned. The title of tonight’s blog was going to be “Five Tweets @Seanset never wants to see from his daughter.”

I can say that they were quite silly and would have sent @seanset reaching for a pint or two. But something funny happened on the way to that post. It hit me that here was his daughter, 19 years old, enjoying Twitter with her father. I wasn’t speaking to my father when I was that age, and haven’t since. And I thought of all of his tweets about his three daughters, the love he’s displayed for them, and the photos he’s shared. The miles he and his wife have logged taking care of them.

And I couldn’t do it. I have too much respect for this man who lives an ocean away.

One day, I’m going to walk into a pub in England, place a few pounds on the bar and buy him and my other English friend @onlyz the drinks of their choosing. I might even watch some cricket with them. Okay, maybe the cricket part is a stretch. I’ll watch soccer. You don’t need a 500-page rule book to understand it.

I also know that his daughter’s real tweets will get him in the long run anyway. That’s what daughters do. I just have to be patient and pick my moments.

I will share one fake tweet from his daughter. It’s the one that would shock him the most.

Dad, eloped with @unknowncystic. Made huge mistake. Send plane ticket. Bag on his head for a reason. Fugly. Talks to invisible fox. #ohshite

Stay well.

I lost my sanity many years ago. CF ran off with it like a toddler wound up on Red Bull, clutching a stuffed animal. I’ll never see Bobo Bear again.

The heart was enlarged, Doctor

It’s feels uncomfortable knowing that I’ve gone mad. I thought it would feel like the iodine contrast they give me before a CT scan, that warm feeling that rushes through my body and makes me nauseous. But it was more like an earthquake. The ground started shaking and there was nothing I could do but hide under the table.

Here’s how I knew my marbles had rolled down a hill never to be seen again:

I’m not a Doctor, but I play one in my head. When friends and co-workers catch anything respiratory, who evaluates their treatment plan?  The conversation: What did the doctor prescribe? Albuterol?  Good. You may feel jittery. That’s normal. What else? A Z-pack? Take that with food if your stomach gets upset. Buy some probiotics, too. How often are you coughing? Productive? Temperature? Oh, that medical degree on my wall? Yeah, my daughter drew it.

The Man!

Hugh Hefner in the Hospital. When I get assigned a hot nurse, I actually believe I have a shot. That’s despite the fact I never shower in the hospital, my hair looks like there’s mold growing in it, I stink of man musk and I’m married. Not that I’d want to ruin my marriage, but something inside me says, “If I tried hard enough,this room could turn into the grotto at the Playboy Mansion.” Because nothing attracts nurses like hospital-patient repartee, a PICC line in the bicep, and a crushing badger-like smell. Sponge bath, anyone? Anyone?

I would love fur and a little tail

Labrador Syndrome isn’t a medical condition, but it should be. I have the nervous system of a hunting dog. I’m constantly monitoring every little signal in my body. What’s that ache? Did my lung collapse again? Am I having a heart attack? Exacerbation? Stroke? All of them at once? The irony is that I’ll probably miss the signals for one of these when it does happen. Or, one sunny day, they’ll find me on my front lawn on all fours, looking for birds. Bird, bird, where’s the bird, I’ll say, drool dangling from my chin, as the dog catcher puts the loop around my neck.

I can read my own fortune. I can stare at my sputum like I’m reading tea leaves. Thin or thick? Color: Sea Sponge Green or J. Crew Sticky-Forest Yellow? How much? What’s that speck? Blood? Is that McGriddle or sputum? In public, I have a method for running off somewhere so I can stick out my tongue and inspect the specimen, looking cross-eyed and crazy. I wonder how many drivers in front of me have ever wondered, “Why is that guy sticking his tongue out at me? WTF is he looking at? Oh, gross.”

Who has a paper clip and some ear wax?

Open Sesame.  Germs are everywhere, especially on door handles. I reach for the door in places no one else touches. Or, I use my t-shirt covered hand to open the door. But sometimes, someone has designed a door that exceeds my MacGyver-ness. I go back to Labrador mode and wait for someone to open it for me. And wag my tail when they let me in or out.

Animals talk back. I write a blog where I talk to an imaginary fox named Fox. [Message from Fox: Why do I feel like kicking your yellow-Labrador ass right now? Don’t make me show you who’s real. I invented you, Unknown. That’s right. And I can delete you at anytime.] That’s confusing. Perhaps, Fox has a point. Am I the creation, or is he?

Stay mentally well.