One year, eight months, 16 days
I've been a widow now for one year, eight months, and sixteen days. Twenty months and two weeks, if you call it by the way...
Five things I’ve recently tried writing about but shouldn’t until I’m not so bitchy
People who blame their problems on [ insert everything external here ] when the problem (and oddly enough, the solution) is, in fact, inside them.
Bicyclists who run red lights when I have the right-of-way, and then flip ME off.
This letter from the USOC to Ravelry, which resulted in this half-hearted, backhanded, and then amended apology, but then as usual the Yarn Harlot reached into my heart and wrote how I feel, for me. So now I’m off the hook in writing about it at all.
People who expect me to feel sorry for them when they are not only doing nothing to save themselves from a situation but in fact are actively sabotaging themselves.
People in general.
Perhaps this crankiness is exacerbated by this crazy headache I’ve had on and off for a couple of days. It feels like sinus congestion due to pollen… but it’s like a million degrees outside and so humid that I can’t believe there’s a plant out there with enough will to live that it’s propagating.
Blarg.
I’m not mad anymore. Now I find it really, really funny that the members of the USOC are probably sitting stunned in a conference room somewhere, shaking their heads and saying, “What the hell just happened?” Beware the knitters. We are powerful.