I had lofty goals to get through 100 pages of edits before the husband and I embarked on vacation, which meant I was going to have to kick it into high gear over the weekend. I was actually looking forward to it. My husband was going to do the heavy lifting with our daughter, and I was going to have time to myself to write. Time! To myself! What’s that like? I’d forgotten.
But then I went and threw out my back Saturday morning and wound up spending the entire weekend laying in bed hopped up on leftover Percocet my OB had given me after I’d given birth. And … ugh. I hate pain pills. They make me throw up. I honestly do not understand how normal people, people who are perfectly healthy, get hooked on them. Really, I don’t get it. I take pain pills, and all I can do is stare straight at the ceiling and try not to blink unless absolutely necessary, lest I puke all over the place. That can’t be the normal reaction, because why would you do that to yourself willingly?
Anyhow, the point is that what was supposed to be a weekend of unbridled creativity turned into a weekend of pain-filled nausea. And now we’re leaving tomorrow morning, off to join the ranks of that much-loathed airline passenger category: People who take small infants on planes. Wish me luck, internet, wish me luck.
Writing goal = fail.
Percocet = bad.