I've been feeling - and acting - so bad these past few days ... Not just for the rain and the cold and my period and the stress of the kid's exams and the frustration of not being able to hike in this odd prison of circumstance ...
      Traditionally, my outburst would occur but once a month, as they do. But - and G can not find out or he'll throw me out the window - I've purposefully been stretching the gloom and wail over the three days, to finish the suicide scene in Goose on a proper note. Oh, I would so profit from bleak drugs or booze or something, alas. I only have my own head space to manoeuvre in, only this room and screen. I have to make it terrible. My blood and bad ink have to be the same viscosity for a bit.