Dear diary,
I need to go back to work. I’m almost done finalizing crap at the home front, except for those emergency repairs. Ugh.
I’ve finished giving my daddy a haircut. I’ve arbitrarily assigned every month as a scheduled hair cut for him. I can tell because the hair looks unruly. He likes a line at the base of the nape. I don’t do lines. I do whatever my electric clipper, sharp pair of scissors, and reusable razor blade dictates. I don’t take special requests.
And so I’ve sat in front of the computer, viewed YouTube videos, and blogged. Sometimes I slept upright while my Leg Activator helped the movement and increased circulation of my legs. Then if I got really sleepy I would take a nap on my memory foam bed. That’s NOT a life – being stuck with an old fart that keeps yakking and asking stupid questions.
I actually still resent him and TPTB. They both need to go away to Sheol. Sorry. But for whatever reason, when I do go on site and work, I don’t like working! I like the idea of working from home. But I don’t like being told what to do either!
So I guess I’m stuck singing for the rest of my life as my only other outside activities. That’s NOT a fucking a life. I don’t cook well. I don’t do gardening. I don’t mind staying indoors like the son living adjacent or adjoining us. It’s less trouble for everyone that I disappear like the son.
Sincerely,
Flynn B doesn’t give a damn.
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