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And so, to put the finishing touch on this particular weekend, there is more e-mail from my mother. I can't even bring myself to read it; I've just marked-as-read and stuck it in the folder I reserve for parental e-mail that I don't feel equipped to deal with. And yet it sits there, and I know it sits there, and thinking what it might say is likely worse than what reading what it does say. Still, can't cope with that right now. Head hurts too damn much to be having with that.
Instead I'm going to do the should-do stuff -- tidy my room a bit, go grocery shopping, lie down and try to relax so the headache doesn't eat me alive, that sort of thing. The room thing will be good because I really shouldn't have this much of my wardrobe lying on the floor. Besides, I have the "keep-it-toss-it" thing to do. You know, sort out what I own that I actually want to keep, what goes to the local charity shop and what is really only fit for the bin. No sense in moving things I don't actually want.
So ... yeah. Apparently people shooting me doesn't work because there is the "buzzing dodgyhoodoo resurrecty zap thing" after the shooting. Therefore I must apologise for virtual bullet waste. Which I suppose is somewhat less surreal than the conversation we had recently about being able to do touching Rememberance Day pastorals of Flanders Field on one's hamburger with the otherwise pointless-seeming green ketchup, the more standard red ketchup and mayonnaise (for the crosses, o'course).
Instead I'm going to do the should-do stuff -- tidy my room a bit, go grocery shopping, lie down and try to relax so the headache doesn't eat me alive, that sort of thing. The room thing will be good because I really shouldn't have this much of my wardrobe lying on the floor. Besides, I have the "keep-it-toss-it" thing to do. You know, sort out what I own that I actually want to keep, what goes to the local charity shop and what is really only fit for the bin. No sense in moving things I don't actually want.
So ... yeah. Apparently people shooting me doesn't work because there is the "buzzing dodgyhoodoo resurrecty zap thing" after the shooting. Therefore I must apologise for virtual bullet waste. Which I suppose is somewhat less surreal than the conversation we had recently about being able to do touching Rememberance Day pastorals of Flanders Field on one's hamburger with the otherwise pointless-seeming green ketchup, the more standard red ketchup and mayonnaise (for the crosses, o'course).