Warning: Contents Flammable

I keep trying to post, really I do. I get one half-written, and then it's the middle of the morning (as in, 4 am), and I am too tired to go on, and I leave it for the next day.

And the next day comes, and I am too much like a hummingbird, only less joyous than that sounds, and I have no time to breathe, much less fix or finish a half-posted post, and then it's the next night, and I no longer feel like what I said, or no longer want to share it.

And then four days go by, and it is spring, in the sense that the birds are singing and the sun is shining, and I can go out without anything more than a jean jacket.

But not in the sense that I can enjoy it in any fashion.

My arm hurts. My shoulder hurts. My ass hurts. My knees hurt. My head hurts. I am tired. I am busy in a way that cannot be measured or even effectively described with current technology.

My cat is insane because it is spring and she wants to kill all those singing birds. And she, too, is cooped up and unhappy about it. I love her for that.

I hate every single person who glides by me on a bicycle. Hate them.

I hate the people who talk about riding their bikes. "Oh, I had the nicest bike ride today," said one of my friends. "I hate you," said I.

I like the Nikon. I like the legwarmer (#2) I am knitting. I liked the doctor I saw yesterday. He told me I wasn't old enough to be needing a doctor like him. I told him how old I am. He said, "Okay, you are old enough. But you look younger."

Well, doc, today I do not. I look every minute of my age, believe me. If this whole mess keeps up much longer, I am gonna look every minute of my age, plus every minute of the doctor's age. Plus my cat's, for good measure.

See, I meant to write you a nicer post. A happy post, or a contemplative post. Something to make you go "ahhhh," after you read it. One of those. A post with life and color in it.

The trouble is, I am depleted of life and color at the moment. I am angry, and I am frustrated, and I am petulant.

And there you have it. Spring seems like a slap in the face to me, administered on the wheels of so many bicycles. Fuck it all.

Here, look at these nice roses.