It's In New Jersey
My trike has arrived at my dealer's shop. But I've got such a bad case of brain-jackassery that my only comment is meh. Folks are coming to view the house tomorrow, which means that after a nice few hours of office work wackiness I get to go home and finish off all the house prep work I've been nibbling away at all week.
Meh.
And mrrrgh, too.
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UPDATE:
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Just what is brain-jackassery? I'm glad you asked.
Medical opinion is divided. However, speaking as the world's leading expert on my own head, "brain-jackassery" is the mental state that results when the bottom falls out of my neurochemical soup pot. Key levels of certain neurotransmitters - dopamine, say, or the ever-popular serotonin - drop below an ill-defined threshold, leaving me with a bad case of the heebie-jeebies, a feeling of impending doom, general malaise, depression, and so on.
I blame the ale. I thought I could get away with two in an evening; apparently I can't. Probably even one a night for too many nights in a row is too much. This isn't a hangover, not at all. It's just that the Belgian monk's brew upsets my mental state more than is tolerable.
Which means I can't enjoy a simple evening libation as often as I'd like.
It's a little self-corrective mechanism, I think: hey, beer-boy! Getting a little too friendly with the fermented beet sugars there, aren't you?
I've said it before, I'll say it again: at times like this that I cannot believe I used to drink as much as I did. Idiot.
Anyway: my mood has lifted a bit since this morning, and I'm not quite as convinced that I am a wretched fool who has blown his only chance for happiness and is attempting to fix his self-shattered life by pedaling off on an ill-advised journey of avoidance that will almost certainly end badly.
