eleven and a half hours until my doctor’s appointment.
 
This ER rerun i’ve never seen before which seems like I was supposed to stay home tonight and update book donations.  We’re at 325.  And the letters from the librarians, as you can see, have been coming in all week.  It’s one of my favorite things about the book drive, hearing about the delivery guy and all of those boxes.  But that means we only got less than thirty donations over the past week.  There’s only nine days left to donate in order to be eligible for the book contest.
 
Words aren’t making as much sense right now, and the pain has subsided.  People love to talk about how to take Vicodin the right way, how you have to chase the dragon a little, taking the next one right before the pain sets in.  I think I got it right this time.  For the first time in twenty-four hours I’m not in pain. 
 
I’m dreading seeing the surgeon tomorrow.  I like her a lot, and she looks like Reba MacIntyre.  On Monday when she said I was all healed (did I already tell this story?  I’ve made a million posts tonight), I asked her what do I do if another one formed.  She got all serious and said, “Call me immediately and come in.  We’ll cut it open and see what’s going on.”
 
I’m hoping that’s some kind of surgeon figure of speech.
 
My producers on Why Girls Are Weird were nominated for a slew of Emmys today for their HBO movie.  I had a great time ordering them flowers. 
 
“What’s the occasion?” the florist asked.
“They got nominated for Emmys!” I cheered.
“That’s so exciting!” she said.  “What a fun reason to send flowers!”
 
Then we tried to figure out the most worthy bouquet.  It’s an honor just to be Emmy nominee-adjacent.