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Boy howdy, that chapter 17 (17? 18? 18.1?)  was a

short one.

I must apologize to all of you (what, three now? Four?). However many, it is my honour and pleasure to share one of the only two gifts with which I was... gifted: writing. I love it, it drives me completely insane, it cathartizes (did I just make up a word? Ah, I do it all the time. Worrying about it only makes me paranoi... what was that?? "Well, if he was being killed he wouldn't take the time to write the word 'aaaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhh... Would he?") me and it is something that even I admit from time to time that I'm good at. (The other gift is plants, inside and out. I'm a devil with a house leek. No, really.)

The apology, to  you,  comes from my feeble attempts to keep these chapters in actual chronological order. I have no problem with numbering the chapters as 15.1 or 18.2 and such like, but I have somehow turned this diary deal (shared with my wonderful boy, thank Goddess) into a place where Chapter 16 is above Chapter 18. How??? Dunno.

Ergo, I shall be taking a small break from the actual recreation of this shpadoinkle of a ride and will be going through the four million notes, pieces of notes, gigantic notes, puzzle pieces of notes and notes ON those notes to try and get my brain, and this story back on track, for there is much more to be told, and one of the funniest bits of this tale of the really darkside occurs when they'd booted us out of Home Hospital, in the first week of Heritage Hellcare.

It's taken me 6 1/2 years to tell this tale; it's also taken me that same period of time to suss out why it's taken me so long: I'm terrified of it. But, now that we're all  here, I have no intention of not finishing it (and yes, for those who flip to the back of the book to see if it's a sad or glad ending, I hope you will all smile. Dammit! I just flipped! Sorry.)

Anyway, my inside and outside plants have been taking some of my time, and when I say "some" it means I worked on my plants for far too long at one time, and my back then siezes up, pain shoots out all over my body and I end up curled in a fetal position on the carpet (yep, I'm allergic to that, too). So, I mewl in pain and scratch. Tricky bit of body mechanics, lemme tell ya.

I took the day off, as much as I can what with taking care of the boy, (please, chas v'chalilah, I get to do that for another 40  years) but I shall return, even if it's just a pearl of an anecdote (Lordy, I'm conceited!) or a little tootle of a wave, like the Queen, to let you all know to keep checking: this story WILL have an end (I just pray it's not going to be OUR end. Ya know?). I really am trying to keep the  Chapter numbers in some sort of order. I don't even know if 19 is the correct number for THIS chapter.

Or.... perhaps you like the disordered order? Perhaps this is what you think of as some sort of mystery? Nah. As the Admiral with my name who was in charge of Pearl Harbor said, "Nuts." Or was that an army guy? General Somebody? I'll ask the boy later.

Meantime, tell your friends about this place and the story. We're just that pathetic.



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