Putty In Her Hands

I am waiting for my hair to dye Because I look like a skunk, which I think is amazing But bothers my first and last husband. He is clean and neat. Prissy. He likes things done up. He likes a made bed. Not me. I read that bedbugs cannot survive in an unmade bed. While I wait I am flinging stupidity down onto pages. I read them and I think “what am I doing?” But my muse is encouraging me, and I am putty in her hands. If my hair timing buzzer does not go off pretty soon, you will know more about me than you ever cared to know. And I will roll my eyes tomorrow and ask “Why?”