Clint Eastwood is keeping me company this morning.
Subsequently, Frank, the coward, is hiding under the couch.
Or he’s trying to.
My lardy Specter of Imminent Failure has managed to wedge his head
under the sofa, but the rest of him is just wiggling on the floor like some
kind of worm struggling on a hook. It’s really rather grotesque…
I am not giggling.
I’m not.
Smiling like a loon does not count.
With the release of Writhe delayed until at least next week, I
was kind of hoping that the manifestation of failure that’s been hanging out on
my couch for the last month would take a little time off. At least go for a
walk around the block or something.
No such luck.
Fear is a clingy bastard.
That’s true for us all, I imagine, but when you’ve got a panic disorder
already latched to your brain like a damned tic, fear’s clinginess gets a
little bit ridiculous.
So, Frank and his big squirming butt are apparently sticking around for
a while.
Goody, goody, gumdrops.
I think it’s time to turn up the volume of “Dirty Harry” and enjoy a
fine giggle.
Until tonight…
Chloe
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