Excuse Me, But My Brain is Fried
These last scenes are killing me. I guess what I really mean is half the last scenes are killing me. One part of the story is easy to tell. I know where it's going, I've always known, and it's being downloaded from my head to my fingers.
The other part I also know the destination for, but it seems too simple all of a sudden and not enough for the space I am giving it. Does this make sense?
Gosh no. Sorry.
I trust it will all come to me, hopefully in a blinding mystical vision, but plain old Times New Roman will be fine.
Also clouding the vision is this old favorite: 
Yes, that's right, the pump that brings water into my house [Becky's actual pump not depicted--we do have some scruples, plus it's underground, dude]. But we already dealt with this problem, you may be saying, dear reader, and you are right. We have. To the tune of a Large Sum of Money.
But sometimes life says: HAHA YOU TWIT!
IT'S NOT FIXED!
IT'S NOT EVEN SLIGHTLY FIXED!
IT'S NOT EVEN ALTERED.
This is Woman Bathing in a Shallow Tub by Edgar Degas. It's what I'm going to be switching to if the plumber doesn't fix this problem on Monday. Oh goody--a whole weekend of water drama. Normally, I'd say well there's a book title, but I'm not nearly so cheerful right now.
I know. I know. I am still Living the Dream every day.
A bientot
love,
becky
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