It's not what you think. I think.

  

I've been quite the busy bee this week. These new jobs are non-stop craziness that I hope will settle down soon (for more, kind of boring, details, read, Be Careful What You Wish For...).  Meanwhile I feel like Jack Torrance holed up in the Overlook Hotel. Minus the bathtub of blood, talking fingers and Shelley Duvall, of course. Kudos to those of you who made the connection with yesterday's creep-o post. If you missed that reference, well, I can only assume we weren't birthed in the same decade.

Young 'uns these days. What's the world coming to?

I'm trying with all my might to not kill off this blog. But holy shit, folks, I'm tired. 5:00 am to 7:00 pm makes for a very, very long day. And when I finally get home, the last thing I want to do is... well... anything, really. All I really want to do is collapse on the first flat surface I encounter and just pass... the fuck... out.

That being said, I have the entire house to myself this weekend (and I can assure you, ever since that strange man walked up from the basement and into the kitchen last night, the doors are locked ALL. THE FUCKING. TIME. now.), and I will probably have some time while I'm making breakfast  my popcorn's in the microwave to whip up some clever posts. You've been warned.