Work has been kicking my ass ever since I got back from Boston. I did the calculations — You combine my working on my boss’ safe passage to foreign lands with my going home and going to a conference, and you shake that up with a dash of co-worker, board meeting, what-have-you frenzied activity and what you get is me fucking up. Nothing big. Just those kind of pesky details that erode your iron rep for attention to detail. The kryptonite of living in administration land.

Of course, it took me a year almost to the day to get to a place where it’s tough to keep up with the expectations that have now been set for me. Should have rocked the year harder in the joy of the learning curve. Maybe that would have kept the burning of the burning out feeling cool the fuck down. But, hell, yesterday I did have fresh apricots.

Now, if I could just get the folks around me in the work place to embrace spell-checking as a damn swell idea, life would just bleed joy.

Last year around now when I started the job, I kept dropping off to sleep in a constant catatonic state. I figured it was moving and working and all of the exhausting changes life had brung me.

This year, I think it’s just fucking pollen. Headaches, OD’ing on Claritin and Sudafed and wanting to never leave my bed are part of the hallmarks of another fine allergy season. At least California’s deadly fog of shit that makes me sneeze is far-fucking more scenic than in Cambridge. Still and all, I’m thinking Antartica with its non-pollinating lichens might be sweet to breathe near.

By the way, I fucking hate meth-heads. Not because I give a flying fuck at all about drug use, abuse and all that. Whatever gets you through the night and all. Nah, I hate them for their laboratories.

Ever since I started realizing that sweet, summer breezes made my eyes tear not just for their fleeting, bittersweet existence, I have lived a joyous drug-dependent life. To whit, anti-histamines to be against all them bad histamines with plenty of the heart-racing excitement of pseudo-ephedrine, Sudafed’s sweet, cute red pills to dry my nose and boost me into waking. I love me some Sudafed.

The ephed part behind the psuedo, though, has been fueling the meth-amphetamine manufacturers in basements, rumpus rooms and trailer parks all around the country. Now, law-abiding folks like me can’t buy the massive doses we need, and “they,” the corporate they that makes the red-pilled joy both branded and generic changed the damn formula.

I’m not sleepy, really, I’m just thinking about meth and whether a little bit of tweaking would get me through the season.