At any moment, I expect to get up and wander off to some other part of the house, so that in seven minutes and twenty-one seconds [mark] it will sound its warning chimes and I will be far away and never hear it. It is being that kind of a day.
I was full of hope, once upon a time. It could be a good day. It started with my remembering to send Karen away with strawberries (they are a symbol of my love, or something), and then remembering to go to the coffee shop to meet our friends, and all of that was good.
Then I came home, and um. I dunno. I kept meaning to be fruitful and work on my story and stuff. But it's Tuesday, which means it's a cooking-for-the-yogi day, which means I needed to decide what to cook and then go shop it; and that actually meant two shopping trips and neither of them worked very well, and there was difficulty and growling at both of them, and in between I kind of forgot to go to SETI, which has shifted its day from Wednesday to now. Or rather to then.
So what with one thing and another there has been disgruntled cookingness and no working at all, and heaven only knows how I am to explain that to Karen when she comes home after a hard day in the city; and I should really tidy my room, but ugh. I still have to fix the other half of dinner, and it'll all be horrible anyway, and yeah. Really all I want to do is open a bottle and w(h)ine. And nobody else ever feels like this, y'know? For I am particularly sensitive and special. I'm sorry you made me say that, but it's true.