wednesday whine
I hate football. All football.
I hate beer. All beer.
I hate hot. Air temperature hot.
Cobie's in hurricane mode. Snarl. Leaping six feet straight up to eat a flying bug. Barking in my face. Launching himself at my chest and turning in midair at the last minute.
I hate my novel and want to set it on fire, dance around it, roast meat over it, and eat it before it's fully cooked, with blood running down my chin. Except of course it's too hot for a fire--headed for 90, boohiss. And I'd probably get e. coli and die. And go to hell for hating football...in Ohio! And they'd only let me have beer to drink. (And make all the rednecks watch, because that would be their hell, right?)
GAG.
Before all that happens, I better go get some exactly barely sweet-enough tea, which I LOVE, and drink it while I look for matches.
P.S. I'm not really setting anything ablaze, and I can say redneck if I want, because I'm half redneck myself, so n'yeah.