If this is Sunday, there must be garbage.

Sundays suck. The trash is collected on Mondays in my neighborhood, and that means that all the erstwhile garbage-makers are busily hauling their cans out to the curb, making lots of noise to disturb the cow woman's serenity. Add to that the frenzy of the furry beasts who share my little yellow house, as they race around, barking. Pickle starts it. Boo, who is a little deaf, picks it up, and keeps it up long after the disturbance has ceased, since he can't hear it, and wants to cover all his bases. And in my current depleted, somewhat fragile state, this very common occurence is totally messing with me. And on top of all that, we have an air show in town, making godawful loud noises that threaten to rip the fabric of my existence way beyond repair. And did I mention I found the source of my angst? I have been doing some somatics work with a friend, and that has released a lot of pain that was happily trapped up until now in my poor old body. Muscle memory. Great big ouch.