Wherein I am inundated with so much stress I am physically incapable of blogging sanely

Chapter 17. Somebody tell this diva of a chapter that I cannot blog comfortably until he throws in the towel. Quits floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. Who does he think he is, anyway??

If only I could give him a shot of Peach Schnapps and a back massage so that he would just relax a little. Actually, this job calls for a bottle of Vicodin. Otherwise I’ll never be able to pluck those eyebrows and Bioré all his unseemliness without interference. And I could definitely work better without all that backtalk.

For the love of St. Crispin, I have to be done. THIS IS THE MONTH. Forget the fact that I have another novel waiting not-so-patiently to have some spa treatment of its own, or that my revising juice pumping machine is on the fritz because I didn’t know I was supposed to invest in the FOR INDUSTRIAL USE model and therefore have burned out it’s teeny-tiny motor. Forget that I made the mistake of throwing some chicken cacciatore into a blender and fed it to Kyra who now has become somewhat of a baby food snob turning her nose up at oatmeal with bananas which can only mean that feeding her is taking as much work as feeding Emma, who has liked bananas for breakfast every day since the day she decided that liquid meals didn’t do the job UNTIL now that I stock up on enough bananas to feed the entire fleet of monkeys that followed Miss Jane Gone Apes Goodall through the last three and a half decades. But what cannot be forgotten is that Vicodin that I desperately need to find for my chapter that hates me. THIS IS THE MONTH!!!