I’m dealing with faulty equipment, here.
A grocery cart with one crooked wheel that keeps veering off into the canned peas, that’s me. I work but by the time the fifth aisle is reached, there’s cussing and a need for beer.
I’ve got the Cozy Mystery all set in my head but getting it down on paper is another story. Every time I try, the old brain chemistry keeps dumping me in the peas.
Disheartened nut, aisle five.