So you've been on hold. For about two weeks now. And I would imagine that, after awhile, you got a little bit sick to death of the elevator music that's been playing. And I don't blame you, because, "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy" instrumental version, has a pretty short shelf life, and I'm confident it went rancid by the late 70's.
Which makes me feel even worse about the fact that I can't write more today, and will be screwing the lid back on the jar, so you can pickle in the fridge for a few more days, since my DAMNABLE MIGRAINE HEADACHE IS ON DAY NUMBER THREE AND A HALF, AND THERE IS NO END IN SIGHT!
See, Migraine=stupid words coming out of my mouth. Mostly cuss. And I can't subject you, my dear, fresh, spring chick peeps, to profanity laced diatribes against the headache gods who JUST CAN'T LET IT GO, CAN YOU?
So let's just call it a day...or 14...whatever, and wait for those 47 ibu's to kick in. May the heavens bless you for your patience and long suffering~two courses I flunked back in Jr. High, thus, the migraine headache "remediation."
Love, Princess Lisa