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Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey
Thalia tickled Typist’s neck, behind her right ear.
Typist swatted at the muse’s touch. “Go away!”
Calliope lifted Paintist’s left arm by pulling up on her fleece sweatshirt’s sleeve. When she let go, the muse wrangler’s arm thumped and thudded onto the tabletop. “Stop it!” Paintist grouched.
“Let her be,” said Nia. “It’s a mood. It will pass.”
A word from Typist:
I had a little visit from three of the seven dwarfs over the weekend.
Grumpy was short-tempered. You see, I’d decided chemotherapy was not going to get the upper hand. I was wrong, and it ticked me off.
Sleepy kept our eyes closed for more hours than they were open.
And… Dopey forgot about a date we’d made, causing us to stand up a dear friend who waited 15 minutes past our meeting time to call me. Ugh!
I am working on self-forgiveness and grace.
One among you dear readers has said, “We are only as sick as our secrets.”
Writer Anne Rice said, “To write something you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”
Thank you for being here.
I feel better for having shared.