Don't bother me I'm writing

I try to keep things funny, so even when I'm a Debbie Downer there's an element of comedy to it, but I swear John Steinbeck moved into my head space this week, and he's kind of a joy sucker. I've got lots of things to be grateful for: a wackadoo cast of characters who are kind enough to call me their friend, wife, mother, daughter, niece, etc. I have two cats and a guinea pig and a house and shoes and coats and food and books and a Dyson vacuum cleaner. So it's mildly embarrassing when I reach the end of my thank-you list and still feel rotten. Things go wrong sometimes. There's no rhyme or reason. They just fall apart. Is it worthy of saying "well done" when you make it through the day intact? Showered? Dressed? I pounded the crap out of my computer keyboard all week with these freakishly long fingers of mine, but nothing remotely life-affirming appeared in my word box. There were rants and screw-you manifestos; there were prayers for emp...

I thought I'd sit down really quickly and transfer my blog to a different hosting space, because I was tired of the Blogger layout--I wanted something shiny and new. I wanted something that said, "Here's a girl who knows what she's doing; here's a girl who's clever and sophisticated." I am none of those things--NONE of them. "Really quick" turned into an 18-hour disaster from which I will never ever recover--like EVER. There were robots in my room. They crawled out of my computer to "guide" me through the setup process for my new blog space. "We're helping hands," they told me. "Please remain calm while we help you." Zombie Robot by Scott Johnson I was prompted by a friendly pop-up window to answer a series of extremely personal questions as completely and honestly as possible (* requires an answer): 1. Full name * 2. Age * 3. Gender * 4. Sexual preference * 5. Marital status * 6. Number of par...