terribleturnip

My head: is killing me. Stuff: I can't find it. The Humid: can stop. The Festival: Mentally not ready. Physically not ready either, although that I can deal with. The Ten Pounds that I keep losing and gaining: is back. The Percy: is showing his age in a sudden and scary way. The Guilt: I was sort of hoping he'd be gone by now because it would be easier. The House: continues its slow inexorable decay faster than I can pay for improvements. Tomorrow: the Doctor will lecture me and blame anything that's wrong with me on those Ten Pounds. And their companions, the Other Tweny Pounds that will not leave. Because that extra weight is surely what makes my finger joints sing with pain.

I feel as unsettled and jittery as a broken winged cicada in a roomful of cats.

I will hang on to:

This too, shall pass. Thanks to the plumber and a big chunk of money, it is not raining in the basement and finally we can use the upstairs shower. Thanks to my lovely dogsitter and the Captain's generosity, Percy will be able to spend weekends having sleepovers with his whippety companions and we will ALL be much happier and mellower. I'm about to spend all sorts of time with people I love and miss. And lots of people that I don't know, but will make fun of anyway and thus vent my genetically inherited need to criticize on people who will never be hurt by it. Plus, corn and tomatoes are in season.