to fight your demons and your bloody wars

Today's overwhelming delight was the new head for my toothbrush. I would have been an extremely bad-tempered pioneer.

I am the only person in my immediate family who wasn't allowed an English degree. It would all have been a lot different. Sometimes I get hung up on that; mostly I try to ignore it.

Kitten claws have finally been clipped before she unintentionally destroys all my clothes. I need to learn to do it myself so I don't have to wait for him to do it, but I am terrified of cutting the quick. They both get baths next weekend, because she smells kind of sour to be kissed. Pushkin probably does too, but he doesn't like to be kissed. Likely will have to be trimmed again before Halloween so they don't murder me in the struggle with costumes. I AM SO THAT PERSON.

Eugenia just jumped into my empty wicker laundry hamper.

I practiced the crown braid again today so I don't forget how, even though it's not very flattering for my fat little face right now, and someone called me Princess Leia. That is not my association there, but I guess it would be in the second two movies. And I've been called worse things.

Tomorrow I get to stay home after lunch and wait for the sprinkler man. This week is going to suck - Tuesday is subcommittee, which is going to run late and also painful, with or without the beaver; Wednesday I have to go back to purgatory, reaaaaally hoping the office empties out early because I reaaaaally am not up coping gracefully; Thursday is board night. Friday I will probably need to be an odango head.

I like my house too much. The big room has windows on three sides, and the ceiling is at least twelve feet at the highest point. LIGHT and AIR. I'm just afraid I will burn it down or end up unemployed and unemployable and lose it somehow. But maybe it's my reward for having to live in Omaha. I think I'm supposed to go pick out plants tomorrow. I would rather hide in my room kthx.

This weekend was not productive. I don't even know how I would define productive anymore.

Pushkin sits here and cries at me. He has food and water and a clean box, and he does not want to be loved. But he cries. I deserve this cat, because we are exactly alike.