Let’s see, what else can I bitch half out-loud about?
The pain in my hand has migrated to encompass my entire left arm and the bones on my chest that hit the cobblestones first. That’s how flat-chested I am.
I’m really worried about my hand for my farm shift on Thursday morning.
My left leg is also throbbing most unpleasantly, especially the outer part of the thigh muscle, which feels like it kinda sorta maybe got pulled a little unnaturally.
My back. Boo hiss.
I’m not drinking.
For the first time in a week I’m thinking a shot of tequila would be just the ticket.
I won’t do it.
I will, however, eat one of the gluten-free banana muffins I made, and I’ll eat it with EXTRA vanilla-maple cashew-macadamia cream on top. No wheat. No eggs. No butter. No milk. No refined sugar.
No booze, in case that wasn’t clear.
Meanwhile, in the land of booze, Tyler and his friends discovered the fire pit last night, and are back again tonight making a fire, drinking beer (not much beer, only six that I can see, between four people, but still). My bedroom fan will suck in campfire smoke all night and taint my dreams. It will piss me off more tonight than it did last night, and last night it really pissed me off.
I am crampy, but not crampy enough to get this fucking show on the road.
I will start bleeding good and heavy about five minutes after I pull into my mom’s driveway on Sunday, I’m quite certain.
Bringing the Russians to the summer house like a boss.
I just want to Hulk Smash everyone in the face.
Where did my happy go? I was so happy at 1:15 this afternoon. So damn happy.
I think I’ll just go to bed and try again tomorrow.
I do realize that my posting patterns today are maybe a little manic depressive.
Who knew face-planting in public could hold so much power.