Breakfast Schlub

Recently, I've been spending my days asleep and my nights awake. I've been wandering the neighborhood in my flannel pjs (with feet), a bottle of Old Smuggler in one hand, and my .45 in the other. I've been shooting the heads off of garden gnomes, and cursing the cops when they come to get me. I'm lucky I'm not dead.

I'm lucky I'm not telling the truth.

I don't know when my life turned into a John Hughes film, but all of a sudden it has. I've been wandering the house in a foggy, distant headspace, listening to The Smiths and occasionally staring at the ceiling. I'm becoming a stereotypical teenager, as a friend pointed out. I'm going through a period of angst (the affected pronunciation is with the long "a"--so it sounds like "onkst") or ennui or something French and pretentious. And yes, pajamas are somewhere in the mix. I'm doing a lot of sighing and a lot of talking to the dogs. My questions about life are met with a hearty round of panting and face-licking. Well, at least their attitudes are upbeat. I think that's what I need just about now.