"Those retract, you know."
In other news, flesh-eating bacteria is eating my head. No, actually not, but my upper lip got sunburned in San Diego and it peeled off and now it hurts and looks gross.
Also, you've heard of Old Man Afraid of His Horses? (still the best name ever, anywhere. He had a son, too: Young Man Afraid of His Horses.) I am apparently eBear Allergic To Her Glasses.
Even the shiny new allegedly hypoallergenic ones that bow out so they don't touch my temples make me break out like an adolescent who applies pizza to her face. Her face!
Okay, plan for today: finish reading and critiquing Yseult, go to Fedex and Send Stuff To Spectra, win MegaBucks, keep writing at Worldwired, write Hugo-winning short story.
What? Three out of five ain't bad!
"Don't you sulk at me, pussycat. Don't you even sulk at me." Oh, now he's headbumping and licking me and standing on my keyboard and shedding like a fiend while I'm trying to type. And now I'm getting back and tail lashings.
I tell ya.
A girl just can't win.