Settle Down.

Sometimes I get all mad at everything and at the grand injustices of my job and at having to work with certain of my colleagues who behave in such a letters-hating manner as to make it terribly difficult to respect them or even to respect the institution and I get all wound up and decide I hate the world— and then I will remember that in essence I draw a paycheck to sit in these lawn chairs in 27244 and try to be one of the few left standing who's willing to admit to owning books, and occasionally even reading them, and I get to the place where maybe I might be able to settle back down a little bit.

The weather seems to have turned, for what it's worth. Mid-seventies and mid-level clouds and enough sun to want to sit in the shade and a little cool breeze and so basically what anybody else on any other day would call damn near perfect, and as soon as I do settle down — AMR keeps telling me that I have to stop being so damn eager to carry the flag into any skirmish, no matter what size — once I get my pulse rate back to whatever counts for normal for me, I'll be ready to say that it's damn near perfect out here, too.

Today is sundresses and lawn chairs and lunch outside and windows down and a grudging working-through of a backlog of tiny dumbass tasks tempered only by the fact that today is what it is.

Is it too much to say that sometimes weather can save us?