I'm being investigated for extreme use of caffeine. That's what happens when you ask someone to marry you. They get too close, and find out all your secrets. Is there a caffeine anonymous? My name is Mikel and I'm powerless over cappucinnos; and expresso, up to six shots at a time, a couple of times a day. Have you recovered from caffeine? Would you be my sponsor? Call me. I'll pick up a white chip; I promise.

Today is one of those mornings that test a man's will to survive. It would seem easiest and best to somehow curl into the fetal position and never return from it. Momma take me back to the womb. Momma rejected me a long time ago; or did I reject her? The booze was flowing freely back then, so I can't really tell you. All I can tell you is that we are where we are, we land where we land and the best thing that we can do is just dust ourselves off and get on with it. This morning will pass. A million mornings like it have passed already. I'm used to feeling like shit. Like the band Black Flag once sang, "Depression got a hold of me. Depression, man I got to break free."

What sucks about mornings like this is that there is no specific reason for my ailment. Nothing has changed from the night or day before, when things were pretty much normal, except maybe for a day or two of mania. Is mania followed by depression in certain personality types?

Hey, how about Tiger? Another win, another $670,000. I wonder if he gets depressed?

Today is starting off insanely. I woke at 10:30am, for the second time, feeling serene. The first time that I awoke, this morning,was at 5am to let the older dog out to piss. I'm not sure if I was serene at that time or not; I was a bit groggy, as I'm sure that you can well understand.

I knew that I had a pile of shit at the end of the hallway to pick up, because I had seen it on one of my later trips to the bathroom. The pile looked fairly solid, it would be an easy pickup, so I wasn't worried about it. Well, when I got to the end of the hallway, and looked in my son's room, I saw another huge pile of shit, and this one was not put together so well as the one in the hallway. I would need the bucket and brush, the bucket filled with hot water and soap to get that one up off the carpet. Morisson did not come running to me when I woke up this morning and try to stick his nose in my hand. He hid under my desk on his blanket; so who do I suspect is guilty of this defecation infraction? It's really not his fault. Though we got out a lot, yesterday; me and both of the dogs in the vehicle for rides to here and there, we did not take our usually long walk where Morisson gets to relieve himself on neighbor's lawn, in their bushes, and in that long green grass that grow so prevelantly about here. (I mostly pick up his poop, so don't get alarmed. We saw this guy yesterday, the dogs, my daughter and I who let his dog shit all over some grass that didn't belong to him and just walked off leaving the stinky gift for someone else to find. I joked that we should pull up to him and his just relieved dog and hand him one of the blue bags that we use to pick up our dogs shit. Scout said no way, though she did laugh a lot about the thought.) So, where was I? Oh yeah, so I woke up all calm, happy, ready to face the new day, thankful to be breathing the air of a new day and somewhere between where I woke up happy and the point where I sat down at my laptop to start creating great works of literature, something had set in; a mood. A mood can fuck my day, if I let it; and sometimes I can't but let it, no matter how hard I try. Isolation is usually not a good thing to do on such an occaisson, because then I dwell in my head instead of getting involved with what is going on in the outside world instead. I was going to continue with this shit tale, but Scout just called and we have decided to hunt Betty and Cynthia down at one of the antique shops that they are hitting in N. Georgia and give Betty some flowers and coffee, a week early, for Mothers' Day. The Lord works in mysterious ways; I have been given a great opportunity to get out of my head. Bye.

I know someone who sells pot and I wonder how he would feel if I text messaged him from a phone number that he wouldn't recognize that "the DEA is watching you."

I light these candles that are supposed to kill the smell of dog in our apartment. I don't think that the candles work all that well. When you live with dogs, your place is going to smell like dogs. If you don't want your place to smell like dogs, don't l ive with dogs.

It is Saturday, around five p.m. and I'm a bit confused. My son told me that he would be living with a friend, this summer, before he goes off to college, in August, so I put in my notice to vacate this apartment that we have been living in for the last eight years. Now, my son is telling me that his friend and he probably won't be able to get a place because no one will let them live in their house or apartment for just three months. Well, duh, but you can't really blame the kid; he has never shopped for his own place to live in, before. I think that we have decided that he will try to live with his mother for the two and a half months before his freshman year at SAIC in Chicago begins.

I fret things too much. Fretting things does not accomplish anything.
I need to fret less.

I'm in one of those very hip Southern used clothing stores where the people who work there have their head so far up their ass that they can't even say hello to when you walk in the door.

"You have to be cruel to be kind," is what the man is singing in the song that is being piped into the store. There is some greater significance to this, I'm sure, and maybe there isn't; but, either way, I won't be in a hurry to come back and pull out my credit card in this store.

Wow. You have tatoos, a piercing and a psuedo-punk haircut. I'm really impressed.