Pop Goes the Weasel

I am rarely lax in anything I do. Rather, I’m a Rottweiler-at-a-bone about things. Gnawing until my gums bleed and I’m hacking marrow all over the place is one of my favorite fortes, in fact.

So, when I was actually able to make it through the entirety of Sunday and not so much as touch The Hushing Days edits I was rather proud of myself. (Any kind of release from responsibilities is hard to come by in my world. I do love to cuddle my guilt.)

But what does an anxiety-spotted, OCD-riddled thing like me do instead?

Yep, you got it.

Worry.

Not about the work, oh no. About the new meds my psychiatrist gave me five days ago to help make my Prozac “Pop!” in my system.

Well, I’m unaccustomed to “Pop!”

I worry about “Pop!”

*looks a little guiltily at the mangled but dry bone on the plate, pokes it cautiously with my fingertip and sighs*

We’ll see how today goes before rushing to any judgment about this whole “Pop!” lark.

I’ll keep you updated.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe