Baby chickens, wear chainmail gorges today

[I'm in such a corrosive mood. Stupid questions and stupid answers have me ready to decapitate with these mere incisors.]

[It's times like these when I want to invent the first post-papal-mortem joke. It involves His Holiness meeting Terry Schiavo in...whatever afterlife awaits them both, and both of them comparing notes about nasogastric tube inflammation. It won't gel, though.]

[Lessee...things not to do when in this mood: 1. Run into ex-boyfriends, crushes, tricks, and might-have-beens. 2. Drink immoderately. 3. Quit my job. (No chance.) 4. Blog. (Damn.)]

Previously Next

[Later: I just figured it out. Earlier, before I came to work, I was washing out the only pint glass I'd absconded with when I left John's and my last shared abode. The glass broke, slicing a small but deep cut in my left pinky. It wouldn't stop bleeding for what seemed like ages, and I couldn't accomplish the right sequence of 1. have Band-Aid with Neosporin ready, 2. wash cut, 3. dry cut and surrounding area so Band- Aid will stick, and 4. affix Band-Aid with adequate pressure before bleeding becomes too profuse. Took me like four times, and I finally wailed "dammit, I shouldn't have to be DOING this without help!" I also remembered it's his birthday. I sat on the bed, finger wrapped in a washcloth, and...didn't cry, but just may have indulged in a soupçon of self-pity. So that's why.]