There’s a Cabbie at My Door

And here we are.

July 5.

Deadline for 16th novel ten days away.

Other writing projects piling up at my backdoor like wet autumn leaves after a storm.

Shoulders, neck, lower spine of the author in a constant state of “Ow!” as the OCD tendencies have gone rather nuclear of late, seizing up muscles and joints so tightly that said-author is little more than a medicine ball on steroids…

*breathes heavily*

*shakes out arms*

*rubs neck*

*accepts a pitying look from the dog who was recently caught looking at the real estate listings in Timbuktu*

Yep, fun times at Chloe’s.

Maybe I could sell tickets? Make a little extra cash before the big move to Mali (those are my bags the dog has moved to the front door, by the way.)

In short, after scraping through all the nonsense in this post, a simple conclusion has been reached:  I just might need a break.

And a massage.

A brain transplant would be nice, too.

*slobbery passport is dropped at my feet*

And, apparently, I’m also in need of a cab to the airport.

Until tomorrow in Timbuktu…



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