7:30ish. I'm thinking about how my grass needs to be cut, and how life would be so much easier if we had a goat- or, better yet, a sheep. How when I was told to empty my trashcan I thought about what encompasses 75 percent of it. You see, it's a pattern, like fancy lingerie or macaroni necklaces. Two months isn't really a long time, but it's long enough for me to get used to a new routine of red shirts and khaki and late-night conversations. My body is rebelling, punishing me for the overwork, for denying it sleep and fuel, filling it with smoke and foreign objects. It's pouting, sleeping through alarm clocks, slow on the uptake, clumsy, unresponsive. I'm light-headed, my eyes swimming. But, hey. I look great. I'm trying to show it who's boss, in any way short of bitch-slapping it into submission. I'm fucking Wonder Woman, over here, running on empty, just missing the Lasso of Truth. Or whatever. Lucky for me, lucky for you. Just hand me a bustier and call me whats-'er-face. Linda. I could write about a lot of things. The way my dog limps. The way the wind pushes the grey clouds across the grey sky. How much I miss band. "Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying" at 0:15. Jesus. No, my dog has four legs. And a muscle tear. thing.