Telling the waves to stop crashing
daffodilblonde: Yo Liz, how are you. Enjoying the lovely weather I trust?
lizblackdog: fuck the fucking fuck-arsed pisswank weather with a rusty fucking grapefruit spoon
lizblackdog: no, I am not enjoying it.
daffodilblonde: Didn't think you were.
I fucking hate summer. My dogs are flaked out in panting flat pools on the coolest spots of floor they can find. I have two fans going, I can't breathe, my electric charges are double what they are in winter. Every place where my skin touches more of my skin I've come out in painful red rashes and some of the places are cracked and bleeding. I was supposed to get laid this weekend - and I still really fucking want to - except I think if another warm body touches me I may die, so I cancelled.
Mum's going to...um, somewhere, she told me and I forgot, next week and so I have the added happy fun time of trekking over to her place once a day to feed and poop scoop her cat while she's gone. Why she always picks the time of year when just walking down to the wheelie bin makes me want to bolt for yet another cold bath beats me. She actually said something in a tentative way about Maisie being used to being fed twice a day, and I laughed in her face.
she still hasn't got her LJ to work. I'm going over there Sunday, I'll see if I can sort it. The world needs more of my mother, so it does. Me, I just need a one way ticket to the Falkland Islands. I guess I'll make do with another cold bath.
So, yeah. Not dead. Still reading my f-list, still looking at your photos, still love you. Just too fucking hot and grouchy to do anything about it.