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I had planned on switching gears from my Flack/Stanhope cracknum opus to Part XII of Sprache today, but the former is going so well that mayhap I should strike while the iron is hot. Still, I have written eight thousand words in seven days, and I really want to get Richard and Calliope settled in Berlin so that he can really unfurl his courting plumage.
My mother is bitching at me because it's been two whole weeks since the shower was remodeled and the trust hasn't paid her yet. I swear to you that my mother is an imbecile. Why? Because before she started the project or invested the first red cent, I explicitly told her that payment from the trust for any expenses incurred could take several weeks to a month, depending on the heat of the fire kindled beneath the ample asses of the lawyers and bean counters who oversee the trust. I told her, in tiny words, even, that there would be no instant gratification. She said that was fine. This morning, she calls to ride my ass because the bills have started to arrive and the check hasn't appeared in her mailbox.
If my brains weren't the only thing I have going for me, I'd bash them against the table repeatedly. Why the fuck is it so hard to listen to the systematic burble of sounds coming from your disabled daughter's mouth and countenance the silly notion that she might--just might--know what the fuck she's talking about, you brainless ass prawn? The worst part is that she's now going to ride my ass until I pester the trustee with demands to know what's going on, even though I already know.
Rammstein save me.
On a brighter note, she finally bestirred herself to order my armrests from the wheelchair manufacturer, so they should be here next week. I guess she got embarrassed enough by the shabby state of my chair that she moved to act before the town gossip got too loud. At least I won't have to worry about getting tetanus every time I put down my arms.
My mother is bitching at me because it's been two whole weeks since the shower was remodeled and the trust hasn't paid her yet. I swear to you that my mother is an imbecile. Why? Because before she started the project or invested the first red cent, I explicitly told her that payment from the trust for any expenses incurred could take several weeks to a month, depending on the heat of the fire kindled beneath the ample asses of the lawyers and bean counters who oversee the trust. I told her, in tiny words, even, that there would be no instant gratification. She said that was fine. This morning, she calls to ride my ass because the bills have started to arrive and the check hasn't appeared in her mailbox.
If my brains weren't the only thing I have going for me, I'd bash them against the table repeatedly. Why the fuck is it so hard to listen to the systematic burble of sounds coming from your disabled daughter's mouth and countenance the silly notion that she might--just might--know what the fuck she's talking about, you brainless ass prawn? The worst part is that she's now going to ride my ass until I pester the trustee with demands to know what's going on, even though I already know.
Rammstein save me.
On a brighter note, she finally bestirred herself to order my armrests from the wheelchair manufacturer, so they should be here next week. I guess she got embarrassed enough by the shabby state of my chair that she moved to act before the town gossip got too loud. At least I won't have to worry about getting tetanus every time I put down my arms.
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