Oh is my back pissed off at me. I just hung two paintings and really thought I was faceplanting for a minute there. Totally pitched me. What the hell? I've treated it well, spared it from so much and this is what it does to me. Ungrateful little git.
Well no more Mrs. Nice Gal. Just for that, it's going right back to moving boxes tomorrow. See how it likes me then! And boohoo if it doesn't like it. A back has to learn to work just like the rest of us.
(and yes, this probably makes me look entirely nuts but I find it therapeutic)
In other news, it's Burns Night. And it's looking like Special K's birthday may not happen for the foreseeable future. I need to break this diet because the romaine and spinach have stopped working, if you catch my drift. Nothing drastic (I think sugar would do damage at this point) but I'm going to break out the haggis and eggs for dinner. What I don't eat of the haggis I'm sure Hildebeest will eat. For a few years I tried having a Burns Night Supper but nobody had interest. Which doesn't faze me; I'll do it, sans pipes, whisky, or company. Traditions must be kept, standards must be maintained, and the haggis will be eaten. Like roasting a turkey, or dyeing eggs, I'll do it once a year for tradition's sake.
I'll listen to this while cooking and eating
And this, if it takes me a while to get the haggis down:
And tomorrow I'll go back to the carnivorous rampage.
P.S. My pal Annie Boline just stopped by, declining haggis but sharing a wee dram. I do adore me muckies.
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