My wit’s diseased

I am a tourist from Idaho. You are all my husband. We stand before the foreign monument of my cold. As with every illness I have dragged you to see, I am fascinated, enthralled, hooked by the rarity. I think it is plumb cute, is what. “Hon,” I say, “would you look at those clogged sinuses? In the book here it says them sinuses haven’t been this clogged in years.”

“Uh huh,” you say, eyeing your watch.

Using a handy broken pillar which is Cement Horizon, I set up our digital camera which is this blog and capture you and me for all time, standing awkwardly, married too long, with the tower of my cold slightly blurred in the background.