The Five Stages of Pot Roast Grief

So, because of all this rutting ice and snow and lack of infrastructure-that-deals-with-ice-and-snow, my sleep schedule has gotten all kinds of wonky, and as a result, I slept beatifically for ten hours yesterday (yesterday, not yesternight), and as a result, my poor pot roast died a horrible death.  No one can hear you scream in the Crockpot.

As I sullenly drank my coffee and sulked, I realized that I was working through the five stages of grief.

For a fricking pot roast.  And I present them here for you:

Denial:  No, no, NO, my pot roast isn't dry!  It isn't a hockey puck, it just needs some . . . moisture.

Anger:  Dammit!  How the hell could this have happened?!  Why the hell does no one else in this house have the sense the gods gave a frickin' weevil to know when the frickin' roast is *done*?

Bargaining:  Okay, maybe if I sacrifice somebody's firstborn to Hestia, she'll salvage my pot roast!

Depression:  My pot roast is RUUUIIIIIINNNNNNEDDDD!!!  Why the hell do I even TRY?!

Acceptance:  Okay, pizza rolls sound great.

Okay, to be honest, I didn't try bargaining with Hestia, 'cos I don't think she rolls that way.  But I did try to find ways to salvage the pot roast. 

Meanwhile, for art therapy, I did this for Day Four of thing-a-day:

Forty-five minutes in Autodesk Sketchbook Express, reference from the Livemodel Companion CD.

And those pizza rolls were pretty darned good.