My Day

The Truck? It is broken down. It is something entirely different than what was fixed not long ago. Fairly easily fixable. But I was born without an opposable thumb.

The weather? It is snowy. But it's a crappy snow that made it about a half-inch deep in places, but has since melted off. It still flurries. But it's a mocking snow. How is it that snow, even a trifling amount, manages to make everything twice as muddy as when it rains?

The toes? Still ten of them. Despite the coffee table's best effort's to deprive me of a digit. It's become a once a day thing to catch one of my little toes on a door jamb or a coffee table leg. Infuriating.

The sleep? It eludes me.

The Maddux? He also rejected an offer from the Giants.

The baseball, in general? Most pitchers and catchers report this week. It's about damn time. I mean, seriously, I've been having to amuse myself for the most part for the last couple of weeks.

And as much fun as Muhammad Biography/Klingon-Borg/Beercan that the NWA's Sandman used to smashed into somebody's head dioramas are to make, you can only amuse yourself for so long.



It only happens when I can't sleep. Which is every day.

That's my day.