Boiling Point

A subtle clarity dappled my mind as I drove home from the Dentist yesterday. I felt, different? Better maybe? It’s hard to explain. Aside from the carnage, the novocaine, the brutality of the job, I felt normal. It felt, exactly, like a fever breaking.

And there is your answer.

For the last three weeks I’ve complained about the heat, which is no worse than any other summer. I’ve kept the house at an arctic temperature and still kick the covers on the floor every night. I’ve physically assaulted poor Sasquatch. I’ve overheated so much on rides that I was on the edge of a panic attack. Grumpy, sleepy, irritable, uncreative, uninspired, accusatory, and short-tempered. I have been the seven dwarves of hell.

I believe I had a fever for the last three weeks. It would certainly explain a lot. No slump. No lack of cosmic motivation. Just ill and unaware.

As soon as my mouth heals I’m going to pour myself a big old mug of turpentine, and fry me up a big mess of barbed wire, smother it in blackstrap molassess and come out there and WHOOP SOME ASS!

From the launchpad-Juancho

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