Day, you are off
Aug. 29th, 2014 04:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI seem to be having an off-day. Or possibly a day off. *shrugs*
Two days ago, I was shagged out by a long quack, currying two ducks with a host of side dishes (pickled garlic, people: you need to pickle your own garlic, for fresh home-made pickled garlic is the bomb, as we say in these parts).
Yesterday was all work all day, murdering our darlings: there was a story by Mr & Mrs Brenchley, that began the day at 12.5K and ended it at nine, and you wouldn't believe how intense that was, and we may have eaten pizza after.
Today I had to prove to the gov'mint that I was still myself, that this face was my face and these fingers my fingers. That took the morning. But I was of firm intent to work on Mars this afternoon - and nada. Nix. I read the internets. I talked of heading to the library, but I never got further than the mailbox (to prove to the county that Mac is not a dog, and that both these cats are our cats, and their rabies vaccinations are up to date, and so forth). Now I have bought wine and abandoned plans to do anything more useful than to empty those nasty cluttering bottles and so throw them out. I might, I just might clean the stove before I make a mess of it again (I have pork loin and mushrooms and onions and mustard and potatoes and brussels sprouts and balsamic: that sounds like a meal to me) - but I ain't making no promises. I might just sit and read. Or I might just sit.
Two days ago, I was shagged out by a long quack, currying two ducks with a host of side dishes (pickled garlic, people: you need to pickle your own garlic, for fresh home-made pickled garlic is the bomb, as we say in these parts).
Yesterday was all work all day, murdering our darlings: there was a story by Mr & Mrs Brenchley, that began the day at 12.5K and ended it at nine, and you wouldn't believe how intense that was, and we may have eaten pizza after.
Today I had to prove to the gov'mint that I was still myself, that this face was my face and these fingers my fingers. That took the morning. But I was of firm intent to work on Mars this afternoon - and nada. Nix. I read the internets. I talked of heading to the library, but I never got further than the mailbox (to prove to the county that Mac is not a dog, and that both these cats are our cats, and their rabies vaccinations are up to date, and so forth). Now I have bought wine and abandoned plans to do anything more useful than to empty those nasty cluttering bottles and so throw them out. I might, I just might clean the stove before I make a mess of it again (I have pork loin and mushrooms and onions and mustard and potatoes and brussels sprouts and balsamic: that sounds like a meal to me) - but I ain't making no promises. I might just sit and read. Or I might just sit.