From someone, probably someone on my friendslist, someone like apocalypsos, I came across the phrase, "What fresh hell is this?" and found that it was delightful and evocative of so many parts of my life. As usual when words come into my possession, I've been altering them: snipping and trimming and fastening and filling to fit.

As also is usual with words like that, I think them more than I say them. This afternoon, while bed-shopping, I decided that perhaps the futon frame could be delayed in the putting together -- "Until this fresh hell clears out," I said.

Sis, as usual, knew exactly what I meant.