Charles is Home.

Charles came home from the hospital today, weak as a kitten, coughing impressively, but well into the land of the living.

This may be my cue to fall apart.

Bad poetry is coming into my head a lot, probably inspired by the demented _Zombie Haiku_ by Ryan Mecum. Get it, as long as you won't blame me too much afterward.

Sometimes I wonder--
If I chew off my own wrist,
Will I escape, too?

On a happier note...uh, give me a moment...oh, yes. Charles' Mom is supposed to go to rehab today. The sun is shining. Prophecy is in 17 days. My trip to Texas is in 4 months. My next cruise is in 6 months and 28 days, give or take an hour. I didn't shave my head. No meteors have fallen on the house.

On Massage Therapists and Lilacs

It occurred to me that someone who didn't know me well might be concerned that I was about to jump off of a tall building. (People who know me well realizing that there are no tall buildings in the vacinity. ;) ) So, to give a small update: Thanks to the wisdom of my still quite ill husband, I did not cancel my massage appointment for this afternoon. Between that, and the lilacs growing outside her office, I am feeling remarkably better. Hopeful, even. Optomism rearing up determinedly and pointing out happy thoughts left and right, until I find myself drawn in and believing. Life is good. Two hours of recently-neglected housework later, Life is, surprisingly, STILL good.

And I sincerely hope that all massage therapists are firmly tied to karma, because they will have massively good things coming their way if so.