And I can't suppress it.
My foot really hurts.
My bum hurts where that extra large shot went in, to try and battle whatever horrible thing is happening in my foot.
I am hot and cranky and all day I have felt like I am a fish out of water.
I am still in shock over losing 27 chicks to heat deaths yesterday.
I am sad that Little Mama died from the heat two days ago, and that one of her recent kits died this afternoon.
I still don't have any new chicken tractors built.
I think I may permanently smell of chicken poop after moving twenty-five scared shitless (literally) chicks to the one large outdoor pen that I have already.
I'm losing the battle against the quack grass, and I can't stand to be on my foot long enough to weed it. Not even with my big hoe.
I hate going to the doctor, when you know they are going to hurt your foot and they DO and then they leave you waiting for forty minutes in the room while they dither around making you an appointment for the morning, which they then can't figure out where it is, and I hate having to be kind of mean and order them about to actually make an appointment somewhere that makes sense and so that perhaps my very sore foot can get better sometime this century.
I hate volunteering for things that are important, when nobody in the community that is going to get the thing that is important bothers to show up except for the same five people who always come. Not that I mind volunteering, but really there is something wrong when someone from another town comes and not anybody from the next block.
It is nearly 9:30 PM and I still haven't had dinner.
I had laundry hanging out all day and still needed to put it in the dryer, because it is so humid out it never dried entirely.
Did I mention that my foot hurts?
Thank you for listening to the previous whiney monologue. A more uplifting installment will be forthcoming, whenever it stops being so hot, my livestock stops collasping and dying daily, or my foot stops hurting--whichever comes first.