In light of some of my recent commentary, some have wondered how well my manic beast survived the Fourth of July holiday. Elly survived, of course, though she didn’t seem to enjoy the process all that much. What was probably the low point of her weekend came on Saturday night when a series of explosions rattled our evening. Given the ferocity of the bombardment, one must assume that every single explosive within a five mile radius that had survived the actual Fourth was set to explode in succession. As Caitlin and I were still in the act of painting our house, a few windows were open when the barrage began. Elly didn’t exactly take it in stride. She pretty much did whatever the polar opposite of that would be. More specifically, she got so nervous that, like a little kid that’s had too much candy at the fair, she puked up her entire dinner. And they say owning a dog is nothing like having a child.

The explosions should (hopefully, mercifully) grind to a halt over the next few days which will (hopefully, mercifully) allow Elly to relax. (Or thereabouts. Relaxation isn’t really her thing.) And maybe then we’ll be able to get some sleep. I found myself jumping up at the slightest sound last night, fearing that Elly was clawing through the door in fear (she wasn’t). I’m ready for that to be over with. The man in black may have been able to build up an immunity to iocane powder, but – for all my exposure to it – I don’t seem any closer to having built up an immunity to Elly’s insanity. I’d rather she just calm down.


For those who are interested in such things, a short fiction piece (that I briefly mentioned a few days ago) should be going up in this space tomorrow. All this talk of real life is nice and all, but sometimes it’s good to pretend.

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