My statcounter numbers are bloody abysmal. Did all my readers go to some kind of convention? I'll stop here before offering names for that imagined gathering. You can fill in your own blanks: ____________________________ .
Yesterday, for those of you who know me and know my line of work, was a bad day of the first order. I came home and needed both Erika and my analyst to soothe my lacerated psyche. "Analyst" is a funnier word than "therapist," by the way, according to my copy of "The Henny Youngman Guide to Being Funny."
I drank a big bottle of monk beer. Getting drunk on Monday nights isn't the usual Woundup m.o., but the day's maelstrom warranted it, we feel... I feel. Such reverie is not without its price, however, so I sit here now, in the very same place, aching and blotchy.
One, possibly two more subjects to discuss. Details upcoming.