Who will buy my sweet red roses?

Two blooms for a penny?
Any milk today mistress?
Who will buy my sweet red roses....
Ripe, strawberries ripe!
Any milk today mistress?
Knives, knives to grind,
Any knives to grind....
Ripe, strawberries ripe!
Who will buy, who will buy, who will buy...

Alas, it's not "Who will buy this beautiful morning" but the remainder isn't so far off: "I'm so high, I swear I could fly/Me, oh my, I don't want to lose it/So what am I to do/To keep the sky so blue/There must be someone/Who will buy?" In a fairly chipper mood - whether that mood is warranted or not. Wonderful parental units who help one shuttle to and fro whilst the car is being repaired, Walmart's buck-a-yard fabric that's oh so silky and strangely patterned and the perfect shades of green and rust, free fish in me belly (well, ok, not free and not fish - but it's a great saying), and my car is on its way back and I'm moving onto the death penalty (away from porn - ack, another Emilyism with no context whatsoever! "Excuse me, do you need that wig?" "Why, what do you want it for? To wear it?" "No, it's for my head." Oy) and from thence to good stewardship of the earth and from thence to (hopefully) happy happy joy joyism and gonnamakeit gonnamakeit gonnamakeit. Hrumph.

All meaning that I have passed out of the three-weeks-prior AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH to the two-weeks-prior I Am In A State of Zen. Which only leaves the week prior uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh with nervous shaking. And then do we rest? Ha. No, we has an interview the following night. THEN we rest. More. Than we have been. Except that we'll need to strike. And the attic will be a mess. And I won't want to move. Until it threatens to move on its own. At which point it will be laboriously struck and then Emily will fall down on the couch and watch stupid TV. Yeah.

Curious, how clockwork the emotions run with the going of a show. And speaking of going, I must be. Flowers to be retrieved from the attic, material most likely as well, digital camera, hrm, what else.... Must do more tomorrow afternoon. Big day Saturday, most likely. Alles gut. And eventually I shall redeem this sorry journal from this oblique opression and write something of value and worth. Coherently.

Mood: Look out! She's talking in monosyllables!
Music: Jamais! *sob*
What Made My Day: Terry Pratchett
What Is Stressing My Day: Not enough day.