So, November. This year it's looking a lot prettier than October, as the leaves changed very late. I wish that I were making good use of my time, writing furiously or something. But this is the problem with writing short stories (at least if you are me). You get one where you haven't figured out how to finish (I actually did finish it, but I
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I dunno ... a female construction worker? Now that I typed them, those words don't sound remotely inspiring, but I still think it might be a possibly-interesting thing to write about. This summer my family had lunch at an extremely bland rest-stop, and there were some construction dudes and this one construction woman who was just sitting alone under a tree, reading to herself. The book looked like a horror novel.
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Here's hoping the hospital mailings are a bureaucratic mistake. Sheesh!
We don't have a cat, but we have a feline visitor, who comes down from the neighbor's when he wants attention, and then is very put out if we don't drop everything and give it to him. Of course, since I'm the person who is allergic to him, mine is the lap he would prefer to be in, and he gets particularly provoked when I don't allow it. The do provide fine entertainment.
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Let's hope that works!
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