I killed a laser printer. This would not bother me nearly as much if this printer wasn’t a replacement for another printer I also somehow managed to kill not six weeks ago, simply by printing. Through good times and bad machines have always been my friends, and now they are turning on me. At very least, a good warranty means there’ll be a new printer shortly. I promise, printer gods, that I will treat your new child with far more reverence. Have mercy on us, poor writers, now and at the hour of our deadline.
About Life getting in my way that I alluded to in a previous entry: In other news, far more important than my relationship with printers, I will be doing three months of intense medical treatment beginning in October. These words are less upsetting than the other word that was used, namely “chemotherapy.” I have done this before - even using the dreaded c-word. I’ll even be doing the same treatment I went through several decades ago, when it was done over a much longer spread of nine months. I know what to expect (TL;DR I get to feel terrible for a few months so I can feel better for the rest of my life). I am optimistic that this will be fine and that it’s the right decision.
None of this optimism saves me from a deep resounding “not again” echoing off the edges of my brain. I also am not enjoying having to tell people about what’s happening, so that they understand I may need more time and support as I manage the reality of surviving a medicine that needs to murder the cellular kidnappers holding part of my body hostage. Here’s hoping for a positive hostage negotiation.