In Which I Complain

That the longer I sit here, the more sore I become.  My back hurts.  My neck hurts.  My arm hurts.  My thumb hurts and I didn’t even hurt my thumb in the fall.  I’m convinced it’s just hurting because it doesn’t want to be left out of the aching.

And what will I do with my chair?  Jim Voorhies, you seem to be magic.  Can you turn a spindle?  Anyway, I’m bummed by the loss of my chair.  I can remember as a little girl sitting under the dining room table playing with my little circle people on those chairs.  I did homework on those chairs.  I stood on those chairs to change lightbulbs.  We made forts out of blankets and pillows and those chairs.  I shake my fist at you, cruel fate.

2 thoughts on “In Which I Complain

  1. Yes and no. I have a lathe but I’m not skilled at turning at all. And once I develop the skills, there’s an antique child’s bed that needs a piece duplicated first.

    But I am magic.

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