The Butcher Blues

Nothing makes blogging harder-with the exception of having your fingers broken--than being sure that you are, yet again, about to embark on another two or three months of being the only income in your household. The feeling in the pit of my stomach is like that moment when the roller coaster starts to move and you know in your head that it's going to come back to the station, but at that second, you don't quite believe it. Sometimes, not very often, I take to my bed. It's the one really indulgent self-pitying thing I do whenever the Butcher quits his job. I go upstairs and lay down and just succumb to every fear I have and then fall asleep and get up and go to work and figure, well, I'm not dead yet. The Butcher has not, as far as I know, quit his job, but the day is still young and he has it in his head that that's what he's going to do. I am sad, folks, that I don't have enough money to not care whether or not he has a job.