This would be my word count thing

If I'd gotten any work done today, as opposed to opening up the WIP ten hours ago and not actually managing to get anything written.

( Maybe I'll get something done after I shower, but I wanted to make baffled noises about something. )

In other stresses. . .

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHG!

I don't feel at liberty to explain, which is why I've set this no-comment.


Addendum as of 3:27 am: I just. Finished off. The last of the milk. Here's hoping I don't have any major moments of wig-out before we can get some more. (For those to whom this is a completely opaque reference: my stress breakdown in 1996 was precipitated by feeling a bit wiggy, deciding I was going to go get a glass of milk and that nice, normal, sane activity would rebalance me and make everything okay. I got out the milk, and discovered that the entire half-gallon was frozen solid. Little psyche pieces all over everywhere. I try to arrange my life these days so as not to get down to the last touchstone, but not having any milk in the house bugs me.)

Hell with it. While I'm editing I'll decide to allow comments, in case anyone wants to ftp me some whole milk.

Injury to insult

My knee has flaked out.

Last night, in order to get upstairs, I had to hand-over-hand myself up the railing, because the knee wouldn't take my weight. And it's a left-hand railing going up and my right knee, which was just the wrong way to go about things.

Of course, on maximum perversity settings (as my body always is) it stopped hurting as I got upstairs; I took my shower, and it went out again, though not as badly, as I went down the hall to the bedroom, and hurt in pulses on and off through the night. And continues to do so, though not as badly, today; we'll see if it goes plotz on me again.

I would like to take a mulligan on this month.

Gods, I sound like a whiney bitch these days.