Sunday sunday sunday!

Man there is just something about this day that totally screws up my sleeping patterns. If I pull a twenty four+ day, it'll always be on a Sunday (to Monday) or the days right before. Or I'll sleep for twenty four hours right before.

Here comes the ~sun.

I have to admit ever since I realized Monday was Moon Day I've liked it a bit more. I was unfairly turned against it by my childhood fascination with Garfield.

I'm nearly done another journal and it's a little depressing as I enter March remembering that there's an entry dated around this # last year that says 'fine, I'm mentioning Coronavirus so future me doesn't think I'm oblivious'. I genuinely thought that the worst that would happen would be the Olympics would be cancelled for safety reasons and people would be okay.

There's a reason I don't advertise myself as a psychic.

If you're curious what stage my province is for handing out the vaccine, the answer is 'No'. My premiere is a death cultist. He calls non-christians (of his specific sect) infidels and has been defunding schools since a report came out that less educated people vote conservative and he keeps closing down all our hospitals and firing our nurses or cutting their pay. I do not like this man or the politicians like him and that's probably the most I've talked politics online since mentioning, once, on twitter 'I do not care for Pallister'. It's not that I avoid it specifically, I just assume people already know what I feel about things or I'm just preaching to the choir.

I've got some books to read upstairs - two Phoebe and her Unicorn collections and 2 and 3 of Molly Knox Ostertag's Witch Boy series. The library provides. The library provides.

I'm working on some ghost stories for a project, drabble sized, and here's one I'm pleased with (this is not the final version, I only send them in for edits when they're all complete) that a friend called 'ripped from the headlines' but thankfully isn't a problem in my house anymore/at the moment we'll see next winter:

The mice in the ceiling would not stop. Every night and every day they scratched and scrabbled in the thin ceiling panels. He couldn't sleep. He was beyond stressed.

He had tried humane traps and the mice had ignored them, each day the traps empty on the floor.

Wrestling with his conscience he decided a last resort, a poison bait cube. He'd place it in the ceiling where the mice lived and they would finish themselves off. He felt awful about it.

He screwed up his courage.

He moved aside one of the ceiling panels. And a face looked back.