Right now, I am drinking tepid coffee and eating an unheated hotdog straight out of the fridge. My car is sitting in the snowstorm outside with a blue plastic dropcloth taped around its rear driver's side door since that window decided to, without provocation, open more and more and refuse to close starting a few hours ago. I had to boyscout that dropcloth into submission with huge flakes already coming down, the kind of snow that falls slowly but covers you so quickly you wonder how it was possible. I have had six hours of sleep since (what day is this?) Wednesday morning. I have no idea how I'm going to do all the things I need to do before I (hopefully) leave for Vegas Tuesday afternoon. There is no hyperbole in that last sentence. And I still couldn't cry. This might be the most emotionally constipated I have ever been.
It's a mixed blessing, though, maybe, probably, sort of. If I weren't this busy, I could be in trouble because I'm in the sort of mood where I could make terrifically awful choices.
I know how much of this is my fault. I know that these are not the world's biggest problems. Try telling me that and see what happens to you. What's an applicable equivalent of, "Well my dad's a judge, take that!"?
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