Poor Ceilidh has a cone on her neck. At first I laughed because...well, it's kind of blackly funny to see an animal wearing the cone...but now I'm just sad. She walks around slowly next to the walls and the cone will bump into a doorjamb and she'll just stand still like a radio controlled truck with a stuck wheel. Her tail's at half-mast and she lacks her usual saucy aloofness.
I never thought I'd say this, but I miss the old Ceilidh. I hope the sore on her neck gets better real soon.
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In less pus-filled news, Scherezade may have a job in The Hague as of this afternoon. I called her last night to talk about moving to Winnipeg and she managed to trump our plans in the best way possible. The Hague! Wow.
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I still have a thousand words to write on my groundbreaking thesis English Language Arts: Am I Compulsory or Not? (No joke; that's really the title. It's a sly reference to the idea in curriculum guides that the Internet is the latest thing, an idea which ignores all of the ways students publish themselves already. Hence Am I Compulsory Or Not? as if ELA could post a précis and be rated by an indifferent Internet community).
I hate writing essays. I can't believe I want to do this whole degree thing one more time. I must've be trepanned when I wasn't paying attention.
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2 years ago today: rinkside seats are surpassingly sweet, even to a girl profoundly suspicious of organized sport.
