In Which She Whines About Her Weekend

This was, by all accounts, a crapass weekend. First, the full moon (here she goes again) arrived at 4:38pm on Friday. At 4:45pm I was in the President's office trying to explain how, with one five-minute phone call, my author had so royally fucked up our publicity plans that we are now at serious risk of having hundreds of thousands of copies of the book and nobody to sell them to.

Subsequently, I was late getting to the Shambhala Center, where I was supposed to be meeting my staff for the Level I weekend I was coordinating. I arrived in a whirlwind of negative, unsteady energy, which was not to be stabilized for the rest of the weekend.

Blame the moon, blame Mercury and his damn need to go retrograde all the flippin' time. Or do what I did, and blame yourself. Let all that blame settle into your lower back so that, mid-way through Saturday night dinner with S. and A., you begin to feel the bottom half of your body go completely numb.