I like to think that I have handled the litany of woe over the last sixteen or so months with grace and equanimity and humor.
Potentially deadly blood clotting disorder no one seems to know anything about? Okay!
Mis- and lack-of- information from ostensible medical professionals about the recovery? Okey-doke!
Subsequent medical debt? Well, then!
Interminable recovery? Alrighty!
Near debilitating memory loss? Wearying, but FINE!
Six week migraine? Thank the gods for good drugs!
Father’s death and sibling insanity? Yee-haw!
Plumbing problems to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars I don’t have *hysterical giggling*
Utter annihilation of the garden?
…
No.
LAST STRAW SITUATION.
So yesterday on a whim I hied myself to Portland, met up with dear old friends, and bought myself two vintage children’s books, French readers, and a new book, on sale, about the Russian Revolution. I totally feel better.
And then this morning I wrote such a kind and subtle Dear John note to a suitor that even Penelope at her loom would be proud.
So. Now that I’ve freed up some bandwidth, I can worry about fascism again.
Productive weekend.
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