I feel like a large pile of dung.

Life, at the moment, for me, seems like a procession of dung beetles.
Grabbing bits of me and rolling them into tight little balls.
Laying their eggs in the tight little balls of me.
Eggs which are now bursting into thousands of tiny grubs.
Grubs which are feeding on my fragmented self, pulling on my limited resources.

This blog, my illness, the house sale, the upcoming move and all its associated hassles, financial concerns, work: all of these are grubs, gnawing away at me, sucking the moisture out of me and leaving me brittle, ready to shatter at any moment.

I am snappy and snarky and bitter and bitchy and crabby and crotchety and flabby and flaky and I don't like myself right now.

There are certain grubs which I cannot shake off - I must deal with them. But others can be cast aside.

So I'll be staying away from here for a while, if you don't mind.