Blog for Stephanie Bryant, a 30-something writer who travels full-time. And her husband, Johnnyb.
And my estimation of the overall human condition drops again. Gee. Twice in 48 hours.
Can you people PLEASE give me some reason to think humans are not total fuck-ups?
Seriously– where’s a mass extinction when you really need one?
I have an appointment this morning at 9 (I’m waiting for it right now).
I went to bed at 10 so I could get up bright and early, workout, have breakfast, shower, and make it here on time.
In the middle of the night, I woke up to go to the bathroom. While I was up, I discovered that, unsurprisingly and right on schedule, my monthly reminder of womanhood had arrived. I took care of it and went back to bed.
Before I fell asleep, the cat joined me under the covers. We snuggled, until I made some movement or something that utterly freaked him out. He bolted, using my arm and chest as a launching pad.
I cried “OW OW OWO W OW” for several very long seconds, while John woke up and got very worried about me. Unfortunately, there were a few tense seconds in which he didn’t know if I was gushing blood or just whining, and I wasn’t at the point of actually making words yet. I managed a “justasecond” before relapsing into “OW OW OW OW OW.”
Got up and checked on my arm. Ow! Four big bruising puncture marks on my upper arm. They were a little bloody, but like all good puncture wounds, didn’t bleed much at all. Cleaned it up, took some advil, and went back to bed.
When the cat tried to sneak back under the covers about half an hour later (yes, I was still awake), he was summarily denied and told to sleep at the foot of the bed. Bastard cat.
Anyway, John and I worked out on our new home gym this morning, which was lovely. I worked my arms and a bit of my chest. John went for a more total-body workout.
Discussion on vlogging list prompted by a vlogger’s “death” (graphic, but fake).
Posting these to memorify them, in case I go back to working on that novel this year.