Friends, I am moop, and nothing is helping.
I scrubbed baked-on mince off my copper saucepan, reciting “I Shall Have Few Cooking Pots They Shall Be Bright”. Moop.
I wiped out my lovely tartlet pan. Still moop.
I tried to finish a Suite article on Harry Potter art ideas for homeschoolers - the daring kind, obviously - but ended up staring at it mooply, feeling moop.
I read Pioneer Woman for a bit. Meh. Moop.
Something more active is out of the question, because the pig is sleeping fitfully on the milks - I think she’s moop too - and I am consequently stuck beneath her as she claws my back-squish with her nails.
Maybe we’re low on some kind of vitamin. I took an Executive Stress B yesterday with my toona sammich, but it didn’t give me power-padded shoulders or cause me to stride around the room with a Bluetooth and a folder, or anything really. Vitamins never work on me, nor spirulina either - I think I’m inmune. And I heard recently that iron tablets possibly give you brain damage. Or was it just babies and iron-fortified formula? I forget. Either way… moop.
My Dear Friend M’s waters broke today, and she was consequently unable to attend Bible study. I was galvanised into action long enough to blanket-stitch around a few more leaves, and then what hit me? An attack of moop, is what.
I don’t even have the pizzazz to make fun of Helpdesk Man’s fedora. And I burnt a batch of biscuits today because the smegging blottus kitcher timer -
No. I can’t even work up rage about the kitchen timer. It probably has a case of moop too. “Seven minutes… six monutes… five minutes… oh, what’s the use?” And I can hardly blame it. Life. Don’t talk to me about life.
Have a sunflower.
Mother Says:
Mathew Says:
