8 inches into one panel of Dad's vest, I discover the row is 12 stitches short because I cannot count. Frog it all, begin again.
Broke the red glass flower part of the hummingbird feeder. Made do with a cut-down plastic pen body. Birds did not care.
The Girl Scout cookie supplier was a no-show Wednesday. But we still have chocolate chip cookies, so we will not die.
There will be pub Friday tomorrow, goddammit.
Word-count! Sent to the Rat, because I am driven by deadlines and discipline and other words starting with D.
Insurrection planned in game! Much furious typing!
More word count! Followed by the realization that I don't like writing much. It's hard! Wah! ...and then more word count, weeping and snarling.
From an actual conversation with The Rat:
"Oh, see, I knew all your creepy-ass reading about space ship crashes would come in handy."
"Indeed. I'm not saying you should compromise the outside, which would do a lot more damage. I'm just saying the bodies should probably be in pieces rather than puddles."
And now begins the slow trickle of 57 first drafts for comments by Monday. Fuck and damn.
Oh, word-count. It was nice knowing you. At least there will be beer.
For now, coffee. Then yoga. Then Arrow tonight. And maybe, maybe more word-count.