The Stars and the Cookie Jar

(groan)

I can sleep when I'm dead.

Or in the train, heading north for my few precious days of home.

But certainly not now, and not for the next several days.

O my store. (My store, mo stoir? Madeira, m'dear.)

This is not going to be a store rant entry -- it really isn't -- but I do need a foot rub, dammit, and my lower back is in nasty shape too. Right now the whole store's worth of green aprons is thump-rump-arrumping around in my washing machine, and I was so keen to make sure I did not forget them on the way out that I left my purse on the back counter. With, you know, my debit card and my house keys and that? (I have two spare store keys hidden in two different places, because it's suicide not to.) And I have no idea how this coming weekend is going to work, and alas, I could not effing care less, because I will be so gone.

My knee is wrapped, my wrist is wrapped, I have hot food that did not  come from a Chinese takeaway; my day is beginning to improve. Too bad I have to go to bed in an hour.

"And I love, you know; can't help but love you, no..."

Oh for the tide to sweep me up, and spin me out away from here.

Did anybody see where Aeneas went?