...and not in a good way. Churchill's "Black Dog" is upon me. I am lugubrious. Moreso, moribund. I am blue. It happens. I blame a chemical imbalance. If anyone has some chemicals, I could use a couple. Brown paper wrapping, please. Normally this is a February phenomenon. This year, it's late. Or early. I dunno. Can't work up a shit to give. I'm buried to the tits with work, my kids are all growing up and will soon be gone, I'm aching, poor and old, no one likes me and my breath stinks. The lie I told in college about being born in Kenya? That shit's been dogging me ever since I got elected. Supermodels are afraid of my abnormally large penis too, I guess people are just damn picky. (I got to admit, the Kenya thing made me laugh. What an asshole. All I can think of is Eddie Murphy in Trading Places, "Want some beef jerky?") AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnyway. I'll be in Vegas next week. Working. Booth babe duty. Goddamn heels hurt my back. Maddmom will be home, cleaning the gun collection and taking care of the rottweilers and the insomniac, violence prone, teenaged boys who carry knives and baseball bats and stuff around the house at night. Would it kill these fuckers to put an underwire in the top? Twelve hours is a long goddamn day. I'm old now, all I need is saggier boobs. But yay, Vegas. All I want to do is sleep.