One of my favorite old time rock 'n' roll songs is the late, great Warren Zevon's "Poor,Poor Pitiful Me," as covered by Linda Ronstadt. The singer/narrator recounts a litany of woe in which even doing herself in is an effort that turns out to be futile. I'd recount the lyrics here except I wouldn't want to give any impressionable soul the wrong idea. One of the reasons I like the song, besides having a good beat you can dance to, is its value for self-mockery when I feel put upon.
The upper respiratory bug I mentioned yesterday is on its way out, but I'm still coughing a little and to complicate matters I had a dental checkup today. So I was lying supine in a dental chair for the better part of an hour, mouth wide open, trying not to cough while the hygienist scraped away the stuff I missed despite flossing twice a day. Not a big deal, but annoying enough to make the minutes drag like I was back in elementary school waiting for three o'clock.
So it was a good thing I got up reasonably early and got three-plus pages in, good stuff, too. In today's scene, I showed that just like evil, all that's necessary for stupidity to triumph is for good men to take a powder. You can't blame the characters in the scene for getting out of harm's way because there's just no talking sense to some people, but you sure wish the people who won't listen to sense were…maybe out of commission with a cold or tied up at the dentist's office. Something.
And like me they just didn't have it in them to get on with their plans later in the day.
Day 79 of writing my new novel is done.