Steve got up from computer fiddling to go get himself a drink and I said, “You’re not leaving, are you?” And then I was sobbing.

I had just read this poem, which is part of it. I’m hot. I’m tired. I’m a little bit hungry.

But it’s simpler than that. I’m just scared. I hate hearts. I hate that they love and break and I hate more that they stop. They can just stop.

Some days, it’s just too much. Today, it’s too much. Damn.

I just went upstairs and nearly scorched my eyebrows off. The weather is mocking me, going from cold to hot too quickly for me to adjust to.

It doesn’t help that we are without central air and have to rely on window units. Which aren’t in place. Which Steve can’t put in because of his heart and his wrist and which I can’t put in because I managed to do something dreadful to my elbow Saturday.

I’ll just sit here and melt. No, the computer is too warm. I’ll sit over there and melt.

… will my doppelganger Hedgie get the same results? Inquiring minds.

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Yesterday morning’s vigorous yardwork has left me with two aching hands, a swollen pointy finger, and a left elbow that refuses either to bend or straighten.

While this gets me out of more yardwork today, it leaves a veritable conflagration of weeds growing through the patio. I shall pray for frogs and Round-Up to fall from the sky.

Will You Bury Me?

Or ash me out? You make
such pretty promises,
undertake such feats.

I’m watching the stupidest TV movie in history.

The Curse of King Tut’s Tomb.

My IQ is slipping as I type this.

Solon, Maple Heights, Independence, Parma Heights, Vermillion, aaaooooom.

If you’re not from around Cleveland, you won’t know what the hell I’m talking about, but Liberty Ford has the weirdest jingle in the history of commercials.

And, god help me, I sing along. Every. Time.

Steve may stop watching baseball with me.

Aaaooom.

It will be because I forgot to get cat food and the little fuzzballs staged a revolt.

Dickens is already staring at me as if I were a pot roast.

Fibonacci’s Fallowing

Too
tall
grasses
stay upright
even when I slash
their green ribbed feet with dulling shears
and leave them there to crisp the lawn with dead tawny spikes.

… and I’m not afraid to use it.

Breyer’s Sara Lee Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream, to be exact.

It’s all because of a dearth of Diet Coke and a whole lotta whining. Oh and being attacked by a rose bush that was trying to eat my face.

Life is hard. That’s why we have dessert.