I am on my last nerve and a lot of coffee this morning, so fair warning: Don’t fucking test me on this one.

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(This warning brought to you by Not All Men But Definitely That Fucking Guy.)

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The post-sluice romp has begun. House reeks of even more wet dog. Towels are everywhere.

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In which I talk about my best books, being disposable, and how maybe it isn’t all hopeless bullshit.

Someone loves me. I don’t have a Keurig machine, but I’ll make do.

Who’s enjoying a well-earned chew after a hard run and obedience training?

This guy.

AWWWWWW YEAH, BAYBEE. Come to Mama, you lovely writing instrument, you.

Cannot stay in bed, since a 60lb furry toddler sat on my chest and asked where breakfast is, while also noting I am made of meat.

...thanks, astrology app, for giving me even MORE publishing-based neurosis. Thanks ever so much.

Friday the 13th, full moon, and a perfect storm of mansplainers.

*sigh* Tonight's gonna be grand.

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Ragged Feathers

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