Dog Tired

Sometimes my brain and worry are like a dog and a ball, one endlessly entertaining the other until it’s torn to shreds.

Pardon me, it takes massive effort to write. Every sentence is a chore. The world is ending anyway, according to my belly and head. Cormac is keeping me company as I write, Husband is home (finally) for the week, even Moro is being sweet. Dante remains unaffiliated.

Sometimes I wonder what people do in their free time when they’re not blaming themselves for the apocalypse. Less often, I wonder what sort of uncanny terror I would be with two hands, a perfect body and a perfect brain.

Probably better off with the devil I know. Anxiety, darling, even old friends wear out their welcome eventually. You can visit, but take the hint. Scram.