Know what?

Bette Midler as my jam today was in contradiction to the pity party I was engaging in.

Burt tends to make less sense than ever of late. He still expects me to fill in all the blanks.

He’ll cite a destination for an activity of an unspecified type.

I am charged with knowing both where and what. It’s an unrewarding remit.

Burt’s hostility to being helped has more than once turned into nastiness and aggression. It can be directed even at me. (I am not surprised, but the emphasis underlines today’s tone of dismay.)

Burt’s evident mental decline is in tandem with greater physical weakness. I am sad. For me, yes, and distraught for him.