None of that happened. (Cue the collective "awww..." from readership.)
No, instead my brother chose Friday to stop being able to breathe. Not literally, and not permanently, but my brother Michael was having issues breathing, so Dad took him to the hospital.
For those of you not in the know, Michael is my twin, and he was born with cerebral palsy. Yes, my twin is retarded. Big shock, eh? Not to worry if you feel the need to find the irony or make a joke. I've made them all already. Anyway, a few years ago, Mike was on an outing with a group from his school (which really isn't so much a school as it is a group of other retards) and his chaperone stopped paying attention to him and Mike went down the stairs. The big, concrete stairs at Phillips Park. Which doesn't sound remarkable, except Mike can't walk.
Ergo, downstairs is a trip he ought not take. Long story short, he pretty much shattered his nose (which wasn't small to begin with) and was seriously banged up for awhile. And that's why he goes to the hospital when he can't breathe right, because A) he can't really explain what's wrong or what he's feeling and B) the doctors worry that a rogue bone chip or something may be hanging around in there and causing problems.
But not this time. No, it looks like a simple case of respiratory infection and/or pneumonia. (When Dad first told me, he said "walking pneumonia." I about crapped myself.)
So I decided to stay home instead of heading north, and it's probably for the best, although I miss my friends and my karaoke and my snuggling and my winterfest. So I guess it's a good thing I'm flexible, and can roll with the punches, so to speak. It's also a good thing that I have friends around here, too, who keep me out of trouble (or join me in causing it.) It's shaping up to be a spontaneous movie night, complete with cocoa, minty goodness, and Cute Brian. Yes, Kelly, I'll tell him you say hi.