It’s a glass-shattered-in-my-hand-and-it-was-full-of-grape-juice-which-stained-everything day

I started several posts -- some of which I saved under the delusion I would someday go back and do something with them. I've started even more in my head that were never pinned down into real words and lucid sentences.

It's been a bad couple of weeks. My old stress rash is suddenly back, like the long lost and forgotten twin on a soap. I'm trying walk the yellow line of just-passing sobriety but I feel like old-school Daffy Duck is at the helm.

Worst of all: my metaphors make zero sense, even to me.

Today was just, well, I was going to say, 'the cherry on top,' but I think I should avoid metaphors and other form of purple prose.

I'm anxious and twitchy and exhausted and on the edge of a major panic attack.

Which is why I haven't written for awhile, why I'm barely babbling my way through this.

Tonight I brought my phone and a very heavy wrought iron fireplace tool to bed. Because the cat was acting extra weird and squeaking in the hall and just staring toward the bathroom and it made absolutely perfect sense that there's a serial killing hiding in the shower. (There isn't. I checked.)