I've gone kerplooey.
What I thought was going to be simple is not going to be, and so now I'm looking at 3, maybe 4 surgeries, with the first scheduled for week after next. Sur-jur-EES. And I don't want to be That Person, that person who has surgeries and talks about surgeries and schedules surgeries and sprinkles surgeries on her cereal would you pass the milk.
Let me be perfectly clear here so there is no doubt - THERE IS NOTHING GOING ON THAT IS GOING TO KILL ME. YOU AND I BOTH KNOW I WILL BE TAKEN OUT BY SOME RANDOM AND VERY PUBLIC FREAK ACCIDENT. WITNESSES WILL SAY THINGS LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT, I DON'T THINK SHE EVER EVEN SAW THAT FERAL CHICKEN COMING.
I am not scared; I am not even concerned; I am annoyed. Because the here and now? It's the hot and mess. And it's disrupting me utterly.
So I don't quite know what to do. Do I turn LiF off? Hope for magical fairies to pick up the slack? For goodness sake, the daily phonophotos the last two weeks have been every three days. They're thrailies.
I'm whining, I know. Forgive me. I don't feel well. Bah, humbug.