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There is something going on with me, but I'm not sure what it is. I am not the properest person to judge. But there's definitely something.
Let's see. Everything, then.
It is hot. I am sitting here, and it is like more than sitting. I am one with the chair. It is hot, and I am sticky, itchy, and I smell like a dog.
I am itchy because of the fleas. The day we went away I saw two fleas and I knew what was going to happen, but I tried not to think about it. I forgot all about it, in fact. Then we came back, and the green room was hopping black. The joint was jumpin'.
I'm not itchy because I have fleas, though I do have fleas. The fleas jump on me, but they don't get much higher than my ankles. It is the mere idea of the fleas that makes me itch all over. Constantly. Miles from home, I feel prickly, agitated, itchy. I am afflicted with hysterical flea infestation. Bearing in mind, of course, that there are fleas, which muddies the waters of hysteria. I am Dora of the fleas.
Pardon me while I get my pasta spoon. All this talk about itchiness has made me itchier, and the only way I can scratch my own back is with a pasta spoon.
I had quite a few things I wanted to write here. All day I have been boiling over with frustration. Could hardly contain it, even though it was the girls' birthday and I should have been nicer. I mellowed out as it got darker. We made an unscheduled trip to Chuck E. Cheese, where Duff used about a third of our tokens trying to improve his Dance Dance Revolution scores. But now that I am ready to purge a little, at 12:48 a.m., here is Jasper, my voluble little blondine shadow, demanding that I come and cuddle with him; that I let him tell me one more thing. And I know someday I will wish that he would come and say these things to me again, when he won't, and I know that I should be more loving, and capitulate, but right now I just want some time to process my thoughts, my life, and he won't let me have it. So I am mad, myself, as mad as a three-year-old. If I simply banish him, he will cry so loud that it wakes Duff and then he gets angry with me for not keeping Jasper quiet, when I know that he--Duff--has to be up by five.
So there will be no unburdening tonight. The will of Jasper has prevailed, and my nasty mood has resurfaced. There is still the matter of what is going on with me. I must get to it one of these days. It is just sitting there, like a wad of Play-Doh, waiting to be poked with the stick of introspection.
Until then, we now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcasting.