I thought it was a hangover, but now I’m not so sure. Not likely that a mere two glasses of wine would remove the top of my skull and invite abuse from a line of Celtic dancers. I’m starting to suspect that I’m in the grip of some kind of allergy headache.  Not responding to Excedrin.

Whiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

The weekend inhaled significant equine phallus. It’s over. ‘Nuff said.

I lucked into a LOT of great edits from one of my beta-readers. It’s amazing how many sets of eyes have been on that prose and missed a small catalog of headslapper mistakes. Keep ’em coming.

Saturday evening, I had an epic dream of getting thousands of agent rejections on Selfie. Heck, I’ve only sent out perhaps five queries to my Representation Dream Team (Which is why I wasn’t surprised to get insta-rejections from a couple agents who say they read queries but haven’t asked for pages in the past year). I woke up depressed. Even in the rational light of day, that fog hung about me like body funk. The dog and I were splayed out on the couch most of Sunday.  Same blank look on our snouts.

When My Beautiful Wife is blue, she seeks therapy in shopping. When I’m in a funk, the last thing I want to do is shop. My energy is low. I’m irritable at oblivitron shoppers around me. I have no patience to stand between chrome racks and watch Red thumb through dresses that look identical to fifty other dresses she has at home in her 7/8ths of our closet.

This time when Red suggested retail therapy, I put my foot down. “No way. Not this time. Not happening. We are not going shopping today.”

So, the new Taubman Prestige Outlet mall is nice. If you are a dog. Very dog-friendly mall. Not much there for straight guys. Somebody needs to craft a business model for a store that sells guns, guitars, gadgets, and cheesecake posters of hot ladies; a toy store for the adult heterosexual male.

Or perhaps a place called Oscillating Spindle Sanders. The display window makes it look like Harbor Freight Tools. There’s a sign on the door warning that the industrial tool and die machines inside prevent anyone under the age of 17 from entering.

Once you are inside, it’s just rows of reclining chairs looking at televisions, with Tilted Kilt girls running beer service and the occasional handjob. Call it Mugs, Jugs, and Tugs.

Yaknow. Just a thought.

Just a happy, happy little thought.