Can I just talk some shit for a minute? Like, I think my Muse is a colossal pain in the ass. Swanning, click clacking, purse first with a Dauphin from Boudoir, sneering at my basic frosé that I refrained from almost all summer long in the vain attempt to try the Keto diet (spoiler: it did not work for myself or Jow) having stupid awesome ideas at completely inconvenient times. She doesn't care, as long as she gets to be off the leash on occasion. But at least most of the time that bitch isn't even home. She's off doing whatever where ever slipping the tie that binds to a nearly forty year old chick in suburban Jersey. At least NYC is only an hour away.
But oh girl. Her older sister, The (Goddamn) Universe (Herself) makes my Muse look JV af. So, I had been spending nearly a year gathering camping equipment and clothes for a huge summer festival I would be going to. A camping trousseau so that when I finally had a space of my own, it would be exactly how I wanted it to be. Maybe I wouldn't even want to leave my tent. After all it has a goddamn closet. I could even hide under my bed if I was inclined because the bed has an under. My queenship in exile into what I lovingly call Dork Burning Man (DBM) which involves people who have actually earned Queenships was going to be epic.
So the weekend before, I go to parties in Hoboken and in Brooklyn, because why not me? Kick it off right. I take a day off just to pack because again, why not me? Everything is in order. Everything is perfect. My dance card for DBM filled up with the perfect parties and social events, I was making new friends before Pennsic even happened (my preferred mode of socializing).
And then. . .
My stomach borked me. But blaming bacteria is really unsatisfying. I was on a high dose of antibiotics that
(things accomplished, creative womb spilling out babies like whoa, a method to that bitch's madness, Cherchez la femme, )