I have been incredibly lazy about writing lately. Writing about politics gives me a headache, and since John Edwards, Ambulance Chaser isn't a heartbeat away from the Oval Office, I decided to give it a rest for a few days. Of course, a few days had now morphed into a month and a half. I was actually busy for the first week of the Slack Sabbatical. (Well, that's "busy" by my low-energy standards. It doesn't take much for me to get derailed and say, "Oh, the hell with it.")
First, there was my Exurban Adventure, which was supposed to involve staying at my brother's house and taking care of the animals while he and his wife were in California. There was a slight change of plan after one of the cockatiels attacked my legs. (Four bites, four bruises, minor bleeding.) Even though I got the thing back in the cage, it shrieked like a banshee and managed to peck the thermostat apart through the bars of the cage. Call me crazy, but I had no desire to freeze my ass off while having my eardrums shattered. So I brought his dog back to my house and spent the better part of a week schlepping twice daily to his house (where the zipcode is EIEIO) to feed the rest of the menagerie. I had brief evil thoughts about letting the fucking bird starve to death, but the other cockatiels were harmless, and I'd given Big Brother B my word. Going home wasn't much of a relief, because I had to keep the dogs separated and do Double Duty Walkies because my mellow middle-aged mutt did not get along the perky puppyish purebred. When it was all over, I found myself muttering "I am never doing anyTHING for anyBODY ever again!" Not true, of course, but it didn't do much for my mood.
I followed this misadventure by hurting my back in the silliest way possible. In a decade-plus of waitressing, bartending, skiing, toddler-toting, and dance classes that required me to sign a waiver and bring a helmet, I never hurt my back. So how did I do it? Making the goddamned bed. I bent over to tuck in the sheet and got stuck like that. Why yes, I would like some insult with my injury! It's one of the joys of being a control freak with autoimmune problems: I never know what's going to hurt or why. There's no rhyme or reason to it. All right, wah, boohoo, poor me. That's a rant for another day. Back to my excuses for going dark.
Even under the best of circumstances, I'm prone to holiday blues bitchiness of Scrooge-like proportions. (Having said that, I now declare a moratorium on adaptations of A Christmas Carol. It's been done to death. So, unless it involves Scrooge vanquishing the ghosts with a rocket launcher while screaming "Get out of my house, you spectral bastards!", I'm just not interested.) I thought I'd feel better if I got off my ass to write, so I fired up the blog. Lo and behold, comment spam. For God's sake, my readership is so tiny that I'd be embarrassed to put up a hit counter. Why would anyone bother? Ugh. I removed it, muttering obscenities the whole time and wondering why I bother. But I'll only be derailed by my own laziness; I won't let some link whore push me out. See? Control freak. "Get out of my blog, you spamming bastards!"
Time to dust off all the half-written posts festering in limbo. I'm back.
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