I've got some kind of weird error in my template that's causing each post's font to be half the size of the font in the previous post, so that by the bottom of the page a 500 word rant appears as a single, fine line under the headline. And I can't find it. And it's driving me insaaaaaaane. So I'm going to write about something else until the pounding, pulsing pain in my brain goes away.
One good thing is, it hasn't been raining much today. I saw on the Weather Channel that we had 7.5 inches. This week. Please send water wings and Pina Coladas.
And I took some pictures of me I kinda like. I mean, I look like what I look like in real life, instead of what I look like in my head, so obviously they're totally unsatisfactory, but aside from that and from my camera never, ever, ever taking a focused picture, and from my need to overcompensate for the fact that I couldn't take a squared picture to save my life by making everything cockeyed, they're great.
I hate when my fingers go off the home keys, because I'm totally lost for about 20 keystrokes, just type, backspace, type type backspace trying to figure out what's wrong, and I can't just look down and see what's wrong because if I do my high school typing teacher will leap out of the shadows and disembowel me. And then usually my poor fingers get so disoriented I hit insert instead of backspace, and then I'm really fucked. At that point I know something is really wrong, cause I'm hitting the whole wrong group of buttons at that point, so I snatch a quick look at the keyboard (while clutching a kitchen knife) and stick my hands back on the right keys, and when I start typing again insert is turned off, so when I look at the screen at the end of a paragraph, the place where I jumped back to edit looks insane. Yeah.
Our cat Kelvy had a feral mom and has lived at our house since he was born. When he was about a year old, someone in the neighborhood hurt him really badly so that he can't use one of his front legs, it's broken at the shoulder joint and hangs limp. Or, I should say he can't walk on it. He can move it and he uses it like a hand. It's creepy. Anyway, we kept him in the house for about 8 months after he got hurt, helping him get well, and when he was as healed up as he was going to get, we had him fixed before we started letting him go outside again. But by that time he was two years old, and it didn't change his behavior much. Right now there's two slutty cats in heat circling the house yowling for him to come out and service them. I kind of like the idea of him being the safe-sex gigilo of the neighborhood.
Okay, I feel better now. I'll go do one more hour of troubleshooting before I go to bed, and maybe it'll be fixed before anyone reads this.