For bitter or for worse

My eyes hurt. I mean, they really, really hurt and the lids are a bit puffed-up. Not a good omen for Wednesday, when the peepers are going to be put to considerable use.

Of course today was not a good omen for anything. Not a single phone call was returned, the mailbox was empty. And I haven't finished the current article yet, which means a late, late night.

The tighter the noose is drawn, the more my anger increases toward those who have helped me reach this point. It's almost too strong now, overwhelming my usual attempts to see (and try to understand) other people's problems and make allowances for them. I'm feeling some serious hostility toward a select group of people, even if they don't know it and don't give a damn what I think.

A long list of people should not talk to me tonight. That's okay; they won't be calling anyway.

Of course those whose calls I would welcome probably won't be picking up the phone either.

So all I can do is offer a resounding and very sarcastic "thank you" to **** and my "colleagues" *******, ***, ****, *****, ***, ****** and ****. As far as I'm concerned, you've all made it into Mr Scribblers Fuckweasel Hall of Fame. You've helped make me the unhappy, dispirited, screwed-up mess I am tonight.

I hope I can return the favor. Soon.