This Post Is Not About Lunch...

Sometimes I think so much and write so much that by the time I get home I get all Boo Radley mixed with Jack Nicholson's character in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest after the frontal lobotomy. I'm depleted, spent and smoking like a fired shotgun shell. I shuffle slowly around the house and bump into walls. Children and pets scurry away, plants wilt in my presence and flies drop dead, mid-flight. I blame all of this on writing and my over-taxed brain.

Sounds like a good excuse, at least.