Mrs. W. was kind of limping last night, so when she went to bed before I did, I didn’t make her get up and go to the bathroom before I went to bed. Which meant that she had to go to the bathroom at four this morning. Which also included all her nightly lollygagging. So, when my alarm went off at 6:15, I admit, I decided, “fuck it, I’m going to sleep in” instead of getting up to walk with her.
Which means I’m going to be grouchy all day and that there’s a good chance she will poop in the house, since she’ll be all off schedule. Plus, since she didn’t walk and stretch that knee out a little, it’s going to be stiff on her all day.
So, you know, not a victory of any sorts.
I also wrote a story this weekend which I hate. The weird thing is that I don’t hate it because it’s bad. I think it might actually be fine. I hate it because I find it so fucking unsettling. And I can’t really put my finger on where the unsettlement comes from. I mean, you might read it and like it or hate it just fine, you know? It might not be universally unsettling, just unsettling to me.
But it’s making revisions or even thinking about revisions impossible because I want to rush through reading it, just to get it over with. It’s like I read it the same way you rush past the creepy house on the way home from school.
I think it’s in part the protagonist. On the one hand, the story is about identifying with him and his grief pretty completely and compellingly. And then a thing is done–a sensible thing given the circumstances–and he takes devastating revenge and I deeply dislike it. I guess because I deeply dislike circumstances in which there either is no right thing to do or where the thing that looks like the right thing still costs.
And I wrote this post at Pith, which may be the most bitter thing I have ever written.