Ray Bradbury once wrote that a person wanting to become a good writer should write EVERY day - no exceptions. I wonder if he felt that way after Tequila Tuesdays or Fountain Fridays or Sangria Sundays. Lame excuse, I know. I suppose bender fatigue never hurt Hemingway's production. But, it sure doesn't look like it did much for his stability either.
I think my lack of sleep and stratospheric BAC level over the course of the weekend gave my immune system the go-ahead to take a vacation. Then, some nasty, villainous germ waltzed into the Ole' temple control room and now sits there...cackling and twirling its mustache. My throat itches. I can't stop sneezing. I feel like (Jaundice-inflicted) Adrien Brody looked at the end of "The Pianist."
So I have no desire to attempt wit. I feel no compunction over not entertaining. I just wanted anybody who cared to know that I'm not dead yet; there will be a proper update as soon as my mojo gets cold or hungry enough to come home; and you should never sleep beneath an open window on a chilly night. You'll end up sick, unfunny...uninspired.