I just got done running 5 miles and then spent a bit of time electronically paying my bills from atop Tombstone Hill (my latest nickname for my  Dreamland perch atop a hillside with a view overlooking Lake Erie.)  I think in paying my bills here I make the dead feel good, in that they can celebrate boisterously, even mockingly, that that’s one thing they’re no longer burdened with.

Last week was a kick-ass week turned mad.  It started off by me getting a stellar mid-year review at work.  Then I cracked the cover on some cyber-spies and got praised for that.  I ran 25 miles despite the continuing 90-degree heat.  But by the weekend I was degenerate, self-indulgent, mind-wasting and was acting upon strictly unmentionable impulses.  Frankly, I never before realized that I was capable of pissing so much. 

Things are better now.

(I hear somebody ask: “Weren’t they ‘better’ then ?”  My reply: “No, they were exactly the same.”)

I got a prescription for dinosaur flu.  Got it from a psychiatrist friend just for the asking. But I never intend to use it personally.  Should the avian flu ever strike, the med is for my daughter.  Hitchcock was right: “Birds” is the ultimate horror scenario.  But if I go, I intend to take a birdshit load of those feathery therapods with me.

Summer—where has it gone?  Only three more months of it left.  (I’m projecting, by the current heat wave, that it won’t even seem like the beginning of Fall until November.)   There’s going to be a lot of wild weeds long-in-the-tooth by then. 

I thereby proclaim this “The Summer of the Droughted Weed.”

*resumes lotus position on Tombstone Hill while basking under the Sun*