So, I'm convinced the sea monkeys are using biological warfare in my house. It's the only logical explanation for all the illnesses tallying up around here. I've been either taking care of sick individuals, or have been so sick myself that most things have come to a grinding halt at la casa de Quinn (or chez Quinn for my legions of silent French Canadian lurkers.)
Not much writing going on, and definitely not much cleaning which is, after all, the sea monkeys' primary agenda. (Ooooh those wily sea monkeys. *shoots evil glare at ceiling in general direction of sea monkey domicile*) My major aspirations at the moment are to lie in bed, drooling and moaning. But that doesn't get to happen until pretty late at night after everything else is done.
Now I'm comparing remedies. Should I go with Jack, Jose, Jim, or the kickapoo joy juice fermenting in a jug on my kitchen floor? Oh the choices one must make.
In the entry on Blues Writers a few days back, I mentioned at the end I would talk about the old brags. I still plan on doing so, but it's going to take more concentration than I have in stock at the moment. Just contemplating my remedy choices is enough to wear me out. Therefore, I leave you with my oath, my solemn vow that I will carry out the decimation of the sea monkey tribe which resides in my bathtub. That is, after the joy juice wears off.
The Little Engine That Could
12 hours ago