I'm at the "what's the point" energy depleted stage so I think this had to be the flu. You know when small things like a cup of cold tea provide evidence of the basic underlying sadness of life, or, if not the universe's basic pointlessness, the crumbling decay of my inner life.

more evidence? this video ...

took me hours to recover from. They say the hit dog is okay. I don't believe them. I'm not watching the damn thing again and I'm still all soggy.
UPDATE: I was right not believe it. Not only did the first dog die, they never found the rescuing dog. At least I don't think he was pulling the other guy off for food like some Huffpostians did--only because I figure he would have used his mouth to haul away the hit critter.

I want to go back to just feeling icky. At least I plotted a pretty good book. Times like this I'm haunted by the messy, unpleasant spirit of Charles Bukowski (thank you Alex) and not one of my favorites like Wodehouse.


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