Today I staggered through, holding my face. I did manage to get a dentist appointment, but by the time I got my medications from the pharmacy, I thought I was going to die. I cried all the way home, it hurt so bad, and I couldn’t take the pills until I was done for the day, as the pain prescription was Vicodin.
When I got home, my manuscript was in the mailbox. It needs more work, I’m told. People tell me I should be encouraged, I got a personal response but the way I see it, I couldn’t NOT get a personal response. I sent it to a close friend of a good friend. It didn’t stop there, of course, but if you were a deputy editor (or assistant, or whatever) and you were handed a ms by a high muckety-muck who said their friend recommended this well, wouldn’t you write a personal letter, no matter how much it stunk?
I don’t think Donte stinks. I’m willing to believe it needs work.  But tonight I do think I’m going to pout and feel sorry for myself and hope Vicodin really does knock me on my ass.
Still no Hope computer.