You know you’re having a sad day when a William Faulkner story makes you happier and an escape novel makes you want to puke because it’s so predictable plot with no sensitive ear to the English language.

There is definitely something about the rhythm of poetry or the glass-like flow of prose like water over smooth stones. I think I just did something in that sentence that illustrates my point. I had a first typed rocks, but quickly replaced it with stones. Rocks is technically right, but it doesn’t add the soft touch needed to capture the peacefulness of the scene.

I might be wrong there, but I doubt it.

I think I am beginning to really show the stress I imagine myself to be under. Or maybe the stress is showing me the truth, but I look in the mirror and I want to grimace at the not grotesque, but seemingly ugly lines my face has taken on.

Today I used the weedwhacker to edge along the sidewalk. It was not a big mistake, but I think I should have practiced someplace else before undertaking the task. Fortunately, I ran out of string on my reel and took that as a prompt to quit. Let’s just say that where the ground once encroached on the sidewalk like dunes in the desert, it now scallops along like the edge of the ocean.

Maybe at least people will walk along and think, “Well, she tried.”