Manuscript accepted. Data collected; results surprisingly awesome. Small miracles.
But at the end of the day, no matter how it sparkles, I wind up in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes massaging and inspecting brittle bones and applying every kind of imaginable medication to my various districts of rotting flesh. Throughput is a background distraction.
New developments this evening: yet another cavity creeping up from below my gums on that one tooth that is barely standing and cost me a fortune to keep and cap (whom I have dubbed FitzMolar, as he has proven wholly illegitimate), and "pretty severely" Staph-infected scalp psoriasis. Thank you Universe for that call just prior to supper -- although, it probably saved me from my deep immersion in #scimom blogs and the depressing daydream of what a magnificent father H.K. would be and what a terrible idea it is for me to consider engendering spawn.
Funny how quickly all the glory washes away and I crawl into bed seriously contemplating dentures and the removal of my uterus.
My eyes look shot, my belly's got a pot and there's a pimple on my nose...
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