5:53 pm - January 22, 2006
Corona
Okay, (this is so hard to write because it makes me laugh) I'm a writer. (Snk-gnk noises are coming from my general direction)

I know. I'm a self-indulgent twit. What the eff else am I supposed to do? Pretty definitive, as far as I can tell. It's either that or Burger King. And I'm just vain enough to pick writer.

We covered this last entry, I know. I just prefer this title to "unemployed" to that other thing that announcing makes me feel like such an arse--Taking care of G-ma full-time.

Yes. I take care of my Grandmother. Cooking, dressing, errands, laundry, cleaning, doctor's, physical therapy. None of the really icky stuff (recently, anyway) but I hate the "Saint Deareddie" looks so I'm switching profession.

We already know I'm no saint, unless it's patron saint of drunk people or *censored due to something to do with sex*, and I'm pretty sure there's already one of those. Or more. Probably lots.

I've had the flu the past two weeks and spent them in bed. Which sounds like a lot more fun than it was, alone. Don't get me wrong. Spending a day or three in bed, watching movies, doing crosswords, eating junkfood procured by loving friends, re-reading favourite books: Bliss. Two weeks? Retarded hell.

*Now, before we get into "discussions" about political correctness, let me say that when applied to oneself, one can say any blasted thing they want.*

Heh.

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