Irony

And doesn't it just figure that after writing last night about being worried about being unfeeling that I'd lash out at Tom this morning over NOTHING, and then stomp around the house yelling at the top of my lungs at no one?

I found some stuff I've been looking for, put together two boxes of stuff to mail out, scrubbed the crap out of the carpet in the office (and in this house, that's both a figurative and literal statement), and superglued a broken bowl AND the top joint of my middle finger -- although not together, which is why I'm still able to type.

So now I'm defiantly sitting in my living room, catching up on Big Love and eating bonbons at ten o'clock in the morning. YES I AM.