My brain feels like soft cheese. It has been that kind of day. That kind of week; driving up and down the 95 corridor talking about tortured children, suffering an IKEA curse, eating pumpkin pie like it is going out of style (no don’t worry; it’s not).

People I know are making me speak Spanish, and I can’t get to the pool. Ryan’s heated seats provided brief but remarkable relief to my throbbing lumbar. Shit. I am busier than a witch’s tit in a well-digger’s ass. Sometimes I wish I were some unreal version of myself, some temporary ghost, and I could haunt my apartment for a few days, scare everything away, get some rest, feel what it is like without this mortal coil squeezing me like a straightjacket.