Part of it is scratches from Miss Margot (he’s threatening to post pictures). The other part is the horrific amount of heaving and tugging he’s had to do to help me get my head out of my ass.
No, he’s not moving out, or at least not until the next time I start rolling steel balls around in my hands again, quoting the Unabomber and twitching uncontrollably. I’m not moving out either. Besides, it’s NCIS night tonight, and we’re having barbecue with Keith, and I’m making cinnamon buns. Blame in on menopause, blame it on the fact that every tree in Vancouver is having sex – and I’m not, sorry to point that out – or mebbe blame it on work. Heavy sigh.
So I will go nuke myself some.
I’ve noticed, following up on some of the stories of gangland shootings, that two of the most recent shootings were within blocks of where I live. The sad fact is that gang activities are pretty much happening throughout the lower mainland. There are times I worry about being shot by accident and then I have to remind myself that statistically I’m more likely to break my ankle in a drunken fall or get mangled in a car accident. It’s odd how the threat of random violence somehow seems more likely than the usual things people get injured by.
This paragraph of whining about my physical ailments deleted.
I’m feeling pretty bleak, but at the same time I’m making some progress at work on some of the issues that were really bugging me.
I want to make cinnamon buns again, but there’s no more cinnamon.
Miss Margot is trying to kill Jeff’s houseplants. Then she gave a sanguinary demonstration of how little she enjoys having her claws clipped.
Watched most of the NCAA championship last night. The Tarheels sure are a good team.
I am really looking forward to three days off. And now that I have hot coffee, I feel better.