As I write, I am convinced God is smiting me for some terrible wicked and somewhat shifty thing I did when I was twenty-five.
Or five minutes ago.
Were I to try to express to you how rotten my day has been, you would surely accuse me of embellishing...which of course I almost never do.
Suffice it to say that my computer is acting all crazy so that I can't accomplish the work someone is paying me to do; my house looks like one of those Mid-Western hurricanes ravaged it; my cripple husband is in bed awaiting our drive to the City for his second back surgery tomorrow AND I jacked up my own freaking back only hours ago as I struggled to lift my rice cakes and diet Pepsi out of the trunk of my car.
I would actually cry loudly if I wasn't convinced I would surely choke to death on my own tears.
If the whole Law of Attraction thing has any validity whatsoever, I have to wonder how drunk I was at the moment I began attracting such drama and calamity into my life. Apparently Mr. Man was swigging out of the same bottle because he's dragging as much of this crapola in this house as am I.
If it wasn't bad enough, by the way, I just used the made-up word crapola right here in front of everybody and no one will ever respect me again.
I'd love to sit right here, my back pressed against the heating pad my son brought me, and write a fabulous end to this blithering gobble-dee-goop that is my post for the day. Unfortunately my gentle sobs are starting to frighten the dog and so I must get up and do what generations of Crazy on Her Face women have done before me when faced with unbelievable trouble and pain.
I gots to eat me a handful of pills.
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