Up, and go. Class, proof thru my bro’s writing, to the gym, shopping, dinner, a bit of telly and off to bed. No time to read thru my own work, much less add a word or two.
Complaint one: my arse hurts again. Back on exercise, back on my arse aching after said exercise. Stiff every time I get up; my walking makes me look like I’m 90. A pain in my ass (literally), but a good thing: my sciatica didn’t bother me last night, I slept soundly, and I know I’m on the road to dropping off the extra pound or two I built up (once again) on my butt.
Complaint two: If you’re gonna ask me to proof your work, be prepared to hear what I’ve got to say. DAMN! Couldn’t even point out typos to my bro without hearing his defenses go up. I will not do that again, not unless he agrees beforehand to prevent himself from ripping my head off every time I tell him something isn’t clear or grammatically correct. PS: by the time pizza arrived, he calmed down and thanked me for my work. Even agreed with my corrections. Still! Not gonna take another session like that.
Complaint three: my hair is growing out again. Wish I could just stop it, and have the hair I want. But no! My lighter-than-my-color-job roots are evident at the top of my head. Makes me feel shabby – even shabbier than the somewhat shabby clothes I have to run around in because I feel there’s no money to get anything better. Why do the Dutch apologize for any service over €100 except for haircuts?
Complaint four: The theatre group. No contact. Naturally, my own hopes for a theatre workshop are beginning to materialize. Can you see it? I can. Everything will be in place for my workshop and the theatre group still won’t have met. ARGH!
Complaint five: hearing. ‘Nuff said.
Complaint six: I feel I’m complaining too much. The days are warming up, the trees are budding, and overall I’m not doing too bad, but I can’t stop myself from bitching out loud. Thank the goddess I live in a time of mobile phones; most of my out loud self talk can be ‘passed off’ as me talking to someone on a headset. Tried not to say anything; almost exploded. The comments just burst out of me, whether or not I want to say them. Makes me feel like I should paste a moustache on and develop a hump on my back, then run around rubbing my hands together in that evil cartoon-ish manner. BWAHAHAHA! That’s my evil laugh.
Or maybe I just need a snickering side kick dog.