And The Painted Ponies Go Up And Down
Captured on the Carousel of Time It's Saturday morning. I'm writing on my phone with my thumbs, so expect lots of spelling errors. My thumbs rarely consistently find the right keys. Abby couldn't find her license, so here I sit on Mercer Island in the YTN parking lot, lusting for the coffee sitting in front of me, too hot to drink. Which, sounds like garden variety lust, actually, yearning for something just out of reach, just a tad too hot to handle. On to more meaty subjects. Jenny asked me to draft her Caringbridge post-chemo update last night, which hasn't happened--I mean I haven't done it--in months. I started it, and then fell asleep around 8, never finishing. I woke up this morning to find she did it herself in the dark of night, for which I am eminently grateful. Reading it, I noticed again something completely fascinating. Generally, I am omitted from her posts, and where I do show up it's as a descriptor at best, a noun modifier maybe....