Well, well, well. I hope you all enjoyed your days off with stuffing your faces full of food, liquor, and pie, and then sleeping off the tryptophan overdose for several hours. Perhaps you even ended up passing out on your aunt’s landing while watching some movie about *checks notes* Australia?? while the kids debate whether or not to cover you in leftover whipped cream or to enjoy it as Aquinas taught was proper and eat it themselves. Ah, Thanksgivings past, such a glorious dream.
Meanwhile, my family and I were puking our literal guts out (did you know that stomach acid, when seen under odd aquamarine LCD lights in the pitch black of night kinda looks like blood?) and trying to keep hydrated while not really being able to move. Yes, we were hit with the dreaded norovirus and what a little bitch it is. So we did not cook a single dish, nor did we bake even a measly pie. We did order some KFC when the puking had subsided and I was able to enjoy some mashed potatoes with gravy and green beans. Let me tell you how magnificent those two things taste when the most flavorful food you’ve had in two and a half days has been chicken broth with oyster crackers. A veritable feast!
So anyway, last Tuesday I was lying in bed in extraordinary pain trying to keep down a popsicle. I definitely did not write anything. I certainly didn’t edit anything. Hell, just looking at my phone was torturous! At one point I thought I might have to go to the ER for dehydration. It did not come to that!! All this to say, sorry not sorry for not updating my book last week.
Which leads us to now. Here’s chapter 22 of Miles Apart. I literally like the first half of this chapter only and the rest is crumpled napkins of a failing brain. Go read it and tell me what you think. But I swear, if you’re mean to me, I’ll do what my 6 year old threatened to do to a boy who was making fun of her momma (me): I’ll put your head in the trash!