what's the blues when you've got the greys

It's raining, it's such a rainy day, it's such a monday. At a certain point, you can just give a day up for done and go about in the skeleton of your routine, feeding the washing machine and wiping down counters. I'm drinking a glass of french wine with a "Saint" in the name and listening to the spotify playlist I've titled "90s breakup."

Developments in the why-can't-my-leg-support-my-weight department have turned up this:

Such sexy leg, huh. I wish my calf were really that big and awesome--I'd be a faster runner--but it's mostly swelling. I guess I'm breaking up with my so-called knee.

On my nightstand right now is a book on "the Sexual Key to the Tarot" that I got for 50 cents (spoiler alert it all means dicks), a nonfiction book on codes in the Revolutionary War, and two torn-out pages from my real simple magazine: a recipe for no-cook olive oil tomato spaghetti sauce, and an advertisement for some particularly nice dryer sheets. Tonight, that's what I've got. That and some dumb beads.