As in cough, not writer.
I don’t need this right now. Seriously.
There are pages to write. Diggers and Digger Man to think about.
There’s Sven and The Sven Report.
Floors need mopping.
The alien tree with the blue LED lights needs trimming. Bad.
Gracie Golden Pup has dropped enough hair to braid into a lap rug. She ate a UBO — unidentified buried object — in the back forty and now has Golden demon breath.
There is no chicken soup. There is no one to make the chicken soup.
There is a shortage of tissues in this house.
And, it’s cold. Really c-c-c-cold.
Fisherman’s Friend is not my friend; it is my best friend forever. Original Extra Strong. Try it. Your throat will catch on fire, your sinus cavity will melt, and you will care about nothing. I hope Santa puts a case in my stocking. FYI — if you buy anything other than the Original Extra Strong, you are such a baby. Go for the burn.
This explains yesterday.
Two crabby posts in a row. Not good, Elen. Not good.
Great. Now, I’m talking to myself.
I leave you with this — Sucking on a Fisherman’s Friend. I heart Rowan Atkinson, aka Inspector Fowler.