Random Thoughts On A Monday... Morning?

I'm guessing it's still morning. I'm unsure. I feel discombobulated every time I look at a clock or watch. 

I did a load of laundry at eight o'clock. Or was it seven? I hung my wet towels out to dry outside at nine, and even the weather confuses me. The sun bears down on me like we skipped Spring, and yet the thermometer says it's under sixty degrees. I take a brisk walk around the neighborhood, do yardwork upon my return, and yet I still question whether or not I should've worn a lightweight hoodie.

The only thing I'm sure of is today's the two year anniversary of Terri's passing. I know my big fluffy girl outlived her breed's typical lifespan, but I still wish she were still around. I missed her greatly over the weekend, but today I'm at peace. I'm grateful Torrie and she blessed my life for nearly seventeen years together, and I'll always have those memories.

***

I hated yesterday. Breakfast at nine. Lunch at two. Dinner at seven. Like, what the hell? Then I had watches and clocks to advance an hour. Some were easy to do, while others proved difficult. The wall clock above the 55" TV falls in that latter category, and last year I gave up. Rather than remove it from the wall, turn a dial to move the hands and then spend forever trying to line up a hole with the protruding nail I now turn the big hand once around the clock with a finger.

My only saving grace from the Sunday Shit Show is that I managed to write two chapters of my novel. It has a working title but I'd rather not mention it publicly until an editor gives it a no holds barred critique. For now, it's simply The 2025 Writing Project.

I've made great progress. A Prologue and 14 chapters are done, and there's 38 more chapters to write. Each of these chapters clock in at about 1,100 words on average, nice and tidy the way that I like it. First drafts are supposed to suck, but I feel my writing has improved by leaps and bounds. Unless there's a major plot problem, I'm confident the editing required for this novel won't be laborious.

***

I'm so happy that I want to reward myself on my scheduled day off from writing. Sprouts sells a citrus shrimp and couscous "heat and eat" meal for about $10, and I'd like to have plus some popcorn for dinner. Lunch should also be special. Savannah raved about her visit to Dudley's, and I'd love to try a different sandwich. 

Today is the ONE day this week where it won't rain, so why not do both?

While checking emails, I entertain the thought of leaving town for about three hours so I can indulge myself on yet another epicurean day trip. Then USPS throws their own atmospheric river on my travel plans. Sabby is coming.

***

Back when my physical, mental and financial health were a certified shit storm a decade ago, both Robyn Hood and author Pat Shand saved me. Both made my first foray into a comics shop bloom into a love affair with antiheroes after I read my first Robyn Hood comic, and I've collected every issue digitally since.

Ever since Shand broke out on his own, he's made some tremendous comics that appeal to many but would never be published by DC or Marvel. One of those is Private Dance, a comic that follows the action in a strip club. Sabby, the main character, is pictured on the right and she was made into an acrylic standee. 

I have no idea if I'll display Sabby on my writing desk, but I bought it without hesitation. Pat Shand's writing and Robyn Hood's badassery lit up that dark place I was in a decade ago, and I don't mind opening my wallet to him as a thank you for that kindness.