I have begun chapter nine of my ongoing tale of Rabbit Rue, which has just recently crossed the threshold of 130 pages. After I’ve written a few more of these books, I’ll consider this a mere trifle, but for now, that sheer amount of information is daunting. That I’ve created something that would require hours of reading dismays and bewilders my sensibilities, like a budding architect who has accidentally designed the Sistine Chapel.
Amanda,
I won’t tell you not to worry over your mother, nor to break your vigil, though these past few weeks have been an unjust burden. Like the rest of your friends and family, I can hope for the best, and pray that is enough. Neither can I speak for her, though while I remained incoherent and delirious after my heart surgery, I was glad for the company. You’re doing everything right kid, just don’t go overboard.
Ah research. Research like this, I just don’t need. After looking into my surgical summary a bit more and joining the ACHA message boards, I have a better idea of what’s going inside under my sternum. So here’s what seems to be the full list, in alphabetical order:
Ow.
Now, far be it for me to complain needlessly, but we moved to a new place a week ago. The apartment complex in which we used to live, Kimberly Club, I must label as the very spawn of the devil himself. Why? Because the building in which we lived had two flights of stairs up to our apartment, yet the stairway was narrow and the landings practically nonexistent.
I’ll have a rant later about this, but for now, go to the Washington Post for updates and breaking news on this story. Now that NATO is involved, I fully expect whoever did this to be reduced to a smoking hole in short order.