The levees broke, and my brain flooded. It overwhelmed my foundations. Swirling muddy eddies stained the sofas in the waiting room of my mind, and when the water level got too high, I had to take refuge in my hair follicles. After it was all over, I had to wade through soggy memories and try to salvage the one’s whose blood red ink had not run.

God, what a pity party. But take it like this. I’m trying to log all the things that I need to hash out, not the good things in my life. The danger here is that by talking about it, I rile myself up, and encourage a self-involved, one-sided hyphen party.

But now for something delightful. I had my first Sour Apple Martini last night. Delicious. Thank you, Buddha (the bartender), and thank you, Coleman (who bought it). You might have converted a militant extra-stout drinker into a sometimes-something-fruity-isn’t-a-sin drinker. Because drinks that taste like lollipops and have cherries at the bottom don’t magically turn me into a ripe damsel in distress.