Doomtown

My body is a hot mess, and I’m not just being Southern and overly humble about my looks. I am falling apart faster than a creationist’s argument , make no mistake. And for those of you who advocate creationism, please be aware that I’m in pain. I make no apologies when I’m in pain. I probably wouldn’t apologize even if I were feeling well enough to walk without limping or cursing, but the last thing I need right now is to be attacked by an angry mob of Ben Steins. I don’t care how good he was in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off . His stoic refusal of established scientific fact is rather irritating. This picture explains so much. It started out a beautiful sunny Friday. I didn’t have to be at work until 3 P.M and I was slowly, yet surely catching up to my NaNoWriMo word count. All was right with the world. My husband, our friend James , and I decided we were going to eat lunch at Messina ’s at the Terminal before I left for work. That’s when my day went to complete and utter hell...

I am tired. I am damn tired. I am soooo damn tired! You just don't know. Even though I told y'all at least three times. And I'm not just repeating myself to up my word count . Especially since I'm so far behind on my fifty-K submission, the NaNoWriMo stat site suggests that if I keep up this pace, I might be done with my fifty thousand words sometime in late January. I'm hoping to rectify this situation tomorrow night at the NaNo writer's Eastbank meet-up, but I'm not holding my breath. Still, I got a couple of good stories and two blog posts out of the deal (this one included) so it's all good. The reason I've been so lacking in vim and vigor lately is because I've foolishly agreed to work extra hours at the spa. This has got to be the worst possible time to do such a thing, but if my husband is willing to kill himself working two jobs, I can't very well refuse this form of suicide either, can I? I'm totally not typing that bitterly, ...