Wrangler Dani

Our house, the one we’re trying to buy, has the hiccups. Depending on how this story turns out, it might be a hilarious, endearing sidenote about a lengthy process and How It All Worked Out in the End. It might also be a gnarly case of Killer Hiccups that turn into bloody, debilitating coughs and kill our dreams on the spot. It really could go either way.

I’m tired of the hiccups. I’m exhausted and nervous. All I want to do is lay down for a minute a week and ignore everything. But I can’t. There’s work to be done (that I’m woefully behind on, thanks, bank drama and house hiccups!) and something keeps pushing me, keeping me up at night, prodding me from YouTube scrolling stupor and urging me to pick up a pen and put this on paper. “Write it down,” the inner voice says, too gently for me to holler at it – yet I really do want to throw a pen at its head.

It’s hard to be faithful. I’m tired of being faithful. I wonder if all of this being on time and buying enough milk and saving money and writing every day will ever mean anything. The hiccups are getting tiresome, but there’s nothing to do but keep walking through them, so I guess I have to keep on. Hiccups can’t last forever, right? If they do, at least we’ll have diaphragms of steel.