Not with the H1N1 virus or anything sexy like that, but with work and a child who refuses to take part in Daylight Standard Time, a fridge harboring nothing but baking soda, milk and salsa, plus when I roll up my driver's side window a gap remains so that when I drive on the freeway my car emits a low airy whistle like a perv, or a fart. Wheeeeeh. Everything off track. As I type this my cursor is flickering spasmodically. I can't help but think of that time when the sound of Mary Hart's voice triggered seizures in an epileptic, like maybe my computer is sending me into the throes of something; I wonder if someone would insure my legs for one million dollars each.
All this to say that I am not posting today, which, yeah. It's like when someone asks if they can ask you a question? And you kinda' want to bitch slap them while wearing a large purple costume jewelry cocktail ring? Like that.
The good news is I am fairly certain I can make a bomb with the contents of my fridge.