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I didn't do a lot of work yesterday, but I did a sufficient amount of work.
I have no desire to do any work today, but money is good and panicking over paying bills is bad, so you know. Until I can create that perfect prompt that will work on the Universe—Universe, let me come into five million dollars, but let me come into it without having something bad happen to my kids, my cats, myself, or anyone else I love; and let me come into it before the inflation rate hits 1,000%, and oh! Also throw in world peace—I'm stuck with work.
###
After five uninterrupted days of glorious sunshine, the sky is overcast today, though it's still warm.
Icky is up for the week. This morning, he was battling with the Younger Spawn over the Younger Spawn's refusal to be roused.
"He's just lying there in bed with his eyes closed!" Iggy ranted when I went down to the kitchen to get my morning yogurt.
"Is he sick?" I asked.
"No! He just doesn't want to go to school!"
Icky was playing Gustav Holst's The Planets very loudly. Was this his way of trying to get Gus out of bed? Now, I happen to like The Planets, but I'm thinking if I were a 15-year old whose only previous exposure to this orchestral suite had been John Williamsplagiarized homage-y Star Wars soundtrack, I would have sunk back deeper into the mattress and pulled the covers up over my head.
"Very Shostakovich," I said. "Kinda makes you want to choreograph a military ballet for Putin's birthday. Or maybe Trump's."
Icky laughed.
Recalling my own battles royal with RTT over a similar issue at a similar age, I almost felt sorry for Icky. My fights with RTT could get vicious.
But then I remembered: This is Icky who deserves every horrible thing that happens to him—and a few more.
I have no desire to do any work today, but money is good and panicking over paying bills is bad, so you know. Until I can create that perfect prompt that will work on the Universe—Universe, let me come into five million dollars, but let me come into it without having something bad happen to my kids, my cats, myself, or anyone else I love; and let me come into it before the inflation rate hits 1,000%, and oh! Also throw in world peace—I'm stuck with work.
###
After five uninterrupted days of glorious sunshine, the sky is overcast today, though it's still warm.
Icky is up for the week. This morning, he was battling with the Younger Spawn over the Younger Spawn's refusal to be roused.
"He's just lying there in bed with his eyes closed!" Iggy ranted when I went down to the kitchen to get my morning yogurt.
"Is he sick?" I asked.
"No! He just doesn't want to go to school!"
Icky was playing Gustav Holst's The Planets very loudly. Was this his way of trying to get Gus out of bed? Now, I happen to like The Planets, but I'm thinking if I were a 15-year old whose only previous exposure to this orchestral suite had been John Williams
"Very Shostakovich," I said. "Kinda makes you want to choreograph a military ballet for Putin's birthday. Or maybe Trump's."
Icky laughed.
Recalling my own battles royal with RTT over a similar issue at a similar age, I almost felt sorry for Icky. My fights with RTT could get vicious.
But then I remembered: This is Icky who deserves every horrible thing that happens to him—and a few more.
