I was going to write...

...another screed tonight. My mood has not lifted, even though a neighbor gave me a plate with some of the tastiest brisket, mashed 'taters and fresh tomatoes I've had in years. Half is still left for tomorrow....

Of course I did a small favor for her husband, who is in the Army. He is fascinated by my "job," and sometimes likes an up-close look at what I might be working with. Today was one of those days. So I let him play with the current toy -- under damn close supervision, you dig -- and, a few moments after he left with a big smile, his wife came by with the plate of tasty foodstuffs.

Everything else remains more or less as before, which is crappy.

Worse, when the shit-storm hits, it brings other unhappy things to mind. The snake of depression eats its own tail, so to speak.

I thought about pitching a rant about Mad Mahmoud, but my thoughts are not sufficiently well-ordered to do it. I watched his speech today, and all I can think of at the moment is this: though I'm relatively nonviolent, I wouldn't mind simply decking the slimy runt.

But I'm self-absorbed tonight. In 48 hours I'll be in Montana. Or under sedation.