Still alive here. Really. Just doing a lot of those things that are absolutely and excruciatingly boring to read about, let alone write about ("Dear Diary, today I spent another 8 hours in front of my computer, taking only one break to eat ricotta cheese out of the tub..." Yawn).
I haven't really seen the point in subjecting anyone to it. I'm working hard, sleeping lightly, eating badly, and getting steadily crankier. I'm considering taking up coffee. And I can practically hear my mother's voice telling me I need to take better care of myself. Next week will be better I hope, and I'll be able to send you news of projects that are done and have receded enough that I no longer feel the sharp edge of pain when thinking about them.
Last night, on my way to school, we were rear-ended by someone who failed to notice that we were at a full stop at a pedestrian cross-walk, and the pedestrians were walking across it. Not fun. I'm ok, as is Lunchtruck, but my neck is a little sore.
When I need a break, I'm doing some of the online quizzes forwarded on to me by my delightfully askew friends.
I'm Bridge Over Troubled Water!
Which Simon and Garfunkel album are you?
Other than that, I plan to take it easy this weekend, sleeping until I'm rested, calling my family (who I've not talked to all week), some couch time with Lunchtruck, maybe a little yoga, a little knitting, a little reading. And of course, more work.
The furballs say hi, and want to know why their birthday presents have not yet arrived. They'd like me to remind you that they particularly like the expensive organic catnip and the handknit sock toys, but wouldn't dream of making any suggestions.
Yours in all kinds of weather, even the icky cold rain we're having now,