Enough.

I mean it. Whatever force has laid two hellish weeks on me can stop now. Really.

I get the point. I got it during the last two years, which have not exactly been a bed of roses. Thorn-free roses, anyway.

If the object is to get me thinking about turning out the lights here and going out in search of a nice bridge to live under, success has been achieved.

Once again, I'm in full write-delete-write-delete mode. It might be helpful to explain why I've reached the limits of endurance -- beyond events already chronicled here -- but I just can't do it.

Let's say that what I haven't screwed up has been screwed up for me. What I haven't thrown away has been taken away.

Matters have progressed past any point where good advice and pep talks might tilt matters in my favor. What I need is results. More, I need specific results. As much as I know the possible sources for same, I know with equal clarity that none are forthcoming.

I'm in full Howard Beale-mode tonight.

I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it any longer.

Unfortunately, there's no Faye Dunaway around to turn a breakdown into a success this time, Jim.