I love to write. I get a story in my head and I'll sit and 'live' it through in my head, then I want to put it into words, every nuance and shade and color and movement and look. It's not easy.

I just finished writing something that's been stewing for a while. And the very RELIEF of writing it, of sending it off, left me feeling dizzy and weak.

I hope it is enjoyed. I have more in my head; up next in the queue, something about love lost and time traveled and magic to blame; sounds like a D&D game, eh? but it isn't; just a product of my depression while crap in my life gets tossed around me.

I love my family and my kids, and my boyfriend, but there are times I wish I could escape it all and live inside my head and never have to deal with reality again.

Oh, by the way, I'm a grandmother now. And to see me, to see how I look and act, it's impossible to think so. I've a granddaughter, thanks to my impulsive eldest girl. And the firestorm that child ignited here will change this family's dynamics for years to come.

Thinking back, that's exactly the same crap I pulled when I had my eldest. Why can't we learn from other's mistakes? Alas, but I'm tired now and tomorrow's another day, busy and full of it's own tears and pains and sorrow and laughter and love.

I bid thee goodnight.