First World Problems

I should get out of the house. At least into the backyard. Plant the foxgloves. My shoulder still hurts, but not as bad.

See, now, these plodding, lifeless sentences are all I have produced (at least after a page or two) every time I've tried to write fiction over the past four years. Apparently it is creeping into this blog too. I hope for you guys' sake that it won't be permanent.

Let's see. Can I get excited about something? Seeing friends tomorrow. But it's hard to look forward to seeing friends when you feel about as articulate as a ... a stone on a bump, as I once accidentally called something or other. You sort of hate to subject them to yourself. Also, way too many people are probably going to ask me what I'm working on. I guess I will say, "Being quiet."

The Saints are kicking righteous ass.

This is supposed to be coming out today.



But then I'll read it and it'll be read and I won't be able to read it again for, oh, two weeks at least. I've been trying to teach myself to read more slowly. Needing reading glasses (just the non-prescription ones from Walgreens at this point) seems to help a little.

There is no earthly reason for me to be like this right now. It just about has to be chemicals. But my chemicals are supposed to be well-tweaked. Why, brain, why?

[ETA: So I dragged myself out to plant the foxgloves and sliced the shit out of my finger on a piece of glass buried in the soil. Some days just aren't your days. Well, my tetanus shot is up to date, I don't care how many times I pierce my damned old hide, and now I'll have foxgloves to look at in the spring, assuming the next-door mower doesn't CUT OFF THE FUCKING FLOWER STALKS AGAIN.]

[ETAA: I went out to buy the book and a;most got T-boned by a guy in a pickup truck changing lanes without regard to life or limb. I give up. No more leaving the house today. I've got you now, little book. You're all mine. Make the world go away.]