I have been at work for two weeks straight, and for my weekend, I fell into a fever and am now buried in rumpled Puffs Plus. There is little to report outside of work, because I am either there, sleeping, or doing laundry. I kind of wish I had my weekend back, as I am losing touch with the outside world. Even in my sleep I work.

No romance for me, though I'm not sure how there could be since there is nobody at work for me. Perhaps I should go to a different laundrymat.

I consider a move to the city. I consider a change in job. I consider a change in career. I have cabin fever, where my cabin includes the restaurant. I am punchy and irritable, I am ready for a big change.

And yet I am not convinced that changing jobs or cities or weekends is the answer to that yearning.

I feel like my soul is buried under layers of crud, and I want to bring it back up and give it a good cleaning. When I think about the losses I've suffered, I realize I never put any of them to rest. I just stopped thinking about them. Robert and Joe, I mean, mostly. It's like there is this dust of unresolved pain that collects slowly over my house, on my makeshift furniture and unread books. I am not the type to Swiffer it away on a regular basis, so maybe once or twice a year it gets so bad that I can't ignore it any more. It gets so bad I don't want anyone to come over to see the evidence of neglect, the weakness in my character. I'm choking on the dust and finally make a heroic effort to clean it out all at once. Sorry, this is a silly analogy because it's not even an analogy, there is no difference between the pain dust and swiffer dust. The dust is real. And it really is made of pain, and I really need to clean. And I'm sick right now from all that dust in my lungs, which I won't feel because I drink and smoke and eat and generally dose myself with pleasure, the best I can, so I don't notice how bad it's gotten. How dirty my house is and how out of shape I feel.

If I have any readship left out there, I beg you dear readers not to be alarmed. I am not suicidal or drinking myself into oblivion. I am just right at this moment feeling sick and lonely and dirty. And I am ready to be healthy and in love and clean.

February'll do that to you. Two parking tickets, nearly getting hit by a bus, worst cold ever, nearly getting hit by a lady in an SUV talking on her cell phone, and at least four different computers that call me at least four times a day to collect debts from some lady, to clean my carpet, to protect my credit.

I had this idea for a batting cage where instead of hitting balls you get to smash china and appliances. I need catharsis. I need to tear everything down and see what's left.

I'll do my best to fill this space with something more hopefull soon.