Fahrenheit 451 all up in here

The truth is I am... tired. I woke this morning to a cat on my sternum demanding breakfast, hopping to rest on top of the defunct television pausing to paw at the blinds, until he finally jumped on my book pile to gnaw their covers.

The destruction of books is always the final straw. I suspect he knows; I fed him.

My illusion of control swings in and out of orbit. It's a beautiful sunny day and all I want to do is stare at the floor. I want to throw up my hands and say, "I'm out." Like the time I went skiing, fell down and twisted my knee -- still pops all these years later -- and spent the rest of the day in the lodge with my leg on a chair drinking beer. To me, skiing will always remind me of medicinal quantities of booze.

I have no opinion on snowboarding.

I picked up my package containing Adobe Lightroom from the post office this morning so I've just installed that. Now I have to learn how to use it. I have a strong urge to throw myself back into playwriting, specifically to finish a play I began several years ago. I am drowning in words that I can't release quickly enough and when they do bubble to the surface they are not always the right ones. Does that make any sense? Shakespeare's Hamlet said it better with, "Words, words, words."