Nine-thirty in the p.m. Do you know where your children are?
I should get these ready sooner than two and a half hours before they need to be ready. Maybe, just maybe I can get one or two done this weekend. I have internet, no earth-shaking plans, and I'm not GM'ing the Wardens of the Realm campaign. So, given all that, seems like it's a perfect time for me to slack off, sleep in and scramble to get something ready to post at 11:30 Sunday night. On the plus side though, Chip is a happy camper, well a less grumpy old curmudgeon today. He's back on his meds. Good thing too. Another night like last night and the men in the white coats may have fitted me for a new white jacket; light on the starch boys.
I don't know if it was the lack of the anti-depressant, a moon phase, a great disturbance in the Force or a butterfly flapping its wings 10,000 light years away, but I had a restless, arthritic, and uncomfortable night. When I did sleep weird dreams of a fictional past tried to connect to a fictional present. A high school graduation that I know didn't happen the way my subconsciousness tried to portray it, and a reunion with some old shipmates that has never happened. Ugh, I hate the way my brain works sometimes.
Today though, I'm on a more even keel, Yeah, I know; its all in my head and its all psychological. D'uh. But I'm not breaking things nor wanting to break things; much. I only made a little mess in the kitchen as I was preparing dinner for us, that would be the big white dog, (by some odd coincidence, it's still Elvis), and yours truly. Ugh, good thing I'm not a brain surgeon.
It is wot it iz, and dat's all dat it iz.
Eight down, one hundred and thirty to go.
As always, Спасибо товарищ. (Spasibo tovarishch).
See you on Monday. Peace.
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