Bullets

So, I am a wee bit annoyed right now because I came out here dead tired and all I wanted to do was pen a quick e-mail to a friend and hit the sack. Then my e-mail jigger was like "No way, girl, I'm too full to send your e-mail." So I spent about 45 minutes going through every folder trying to ferret out anything with anything that even resembled an attachment, and it still wouldn't work until *lightbulb* I remembered the junk e-mail folder, which had about 80 messages, all from carnival cruises. (For those of you who are veterans of my blog, you'll recall the summer's posts on how I feel about cruising in the first place)I don't know if that just tipped it over the edge, or if that was the source, but after that, no more problems.

I am at home now. I feel like everything is messy, and it makes me think of Maggie as I find that I too cannot exist freely in cluttered spaces.

Stonework Issue 3, our brain child is finally up. There are no biographies and I feel like it is on hold because of me. I have not sent mine in b/c I'm supposed to include a picture, and I can't get the internet to work to send the picture off of my computer. So I feel like a heel for gumming up the process.

I wish I was in Mexico drinking horchata in the shade in a plaza.

I have had two chances to send my work places to be considered for publication. The deadline is Dec. 31 and I will not be sending anything for either. Farewell, fame and fortune. I can't pull things off. I pray to God that I will not end up screwing up this Africa thing too. ("Help me, help me, help me, help me...")

I hope all of my Christmas presents make it to their intended destination in time. Fortunately, Christmas happens like 4 times for me, so that eases the strain.

If I was a truly great artist, I would come to a blank page half dead with fatigue and bleeding from the liver and in the midst of being chased by a swarm of killer bees, and still compose the beautiful and heartrending words. Alas. I have this vague notion that I came on here with a number of different things I was thinking of writing about. I don't remember what any of them were.

Goodnight, compadres. The next post ought to be a happy one, or at least thoughtful. Maybe we can yet pull it off.

S.