I have grown to love my car. Wait, no, that’s not right. I’ve grown into my car. Or truck. Whichever I happen to be using that week.
Because, see, this is what I do now: Commute an hour to work, work, commute 90ish minutes to the hospital where Evan’s staying, hang out as long as I can, and commute an hour from the hospital to home. That leaves a teensy bit of time to do other things, though I’ve managed to keep writing fiction and, you know, eating and breathing. (Hygeine is iffy at best — we got home so late Sunday night that I didn’t have time to shave, leaving me nicely scruffy for work. Glad the office is dead for the holidays.)
I write all of that as an extended excuse for not posting lately. I’ve been throwing pics of Ev onto Facebook almost daily, so go there for the latest. I’ve also been writing letters. If I can, I’ll post another tonight. Be patient.
