Things I’ve actually said since Saturday:
* “They may be the most harmless people in the world. But that’s a chance I can’t take.”
* “You dumbass, it’s just a hairbrush.”
* “What would you do if you CAUGHT the motherfucker?”
* “I have to stick him in an asylum. He’s too much trouble otherwise.”
* “Oh yeah, give me a baseball bat and make a bunch of people yell at me. No way this could go wrong, right?”
* “Please take your dominance displays elsewhere, I just ate.”
* “Yeah, he humps everything that moves. But that’s one of his better qualities.”
Yessir, it’s been One Of Those Weeks, and it’s only Wednesday. I’ve reached the point in the damn book where I have to go back and cement little bits of what’s already written before I can lunge forward and build the middle of the book where all the tripwires (and most of the explosions) are. Add to that a mountain of housework and the various vexations of single parenting (keeping a straight face has never been so difficult as lately, and keeping my eyebrows from raising when a child thinks I won’t catch them in a stupid fib is just as hard) and the fact that both the dogs are feeling their oats–can it be oats? Feeling their kibble? They’re not herbivores, does it apply?–oh, sod it all, just hand me my tea and let me go mumble about asylums and murder in alt-historical Londinium.
It’s safer for all concerned.
*wanders off, muttering into tea mug*