What is it about home that makes you want to morph into an axe murderer?
On a side note, we had a wonderful Father’s Day dinner at an excellent Italian restaurant in SLO, where Christy and I both independently decided that the waiter was a psycho killer. She wondered if he was a murderer or an actor; I thought he was not a competent enough waiter to be an actor. And I had already wondered if he was stalking someone in the restaurant, so…
I am so. Cranky. And if you know me, you know that I rarely get cranky. Well, baby, I’m there. It’s just something about this house. Maybe they put something in the water here that raises your blood pressure twenty points.
…..
Dang. I started this post a half hour ago, before I fed myself chocolate peanut butter ice cream and a vodka tonic. I’m much more chipper now. So g’night, y’all! Have a good one! I’ll try to remember to finish my ranty blog posts next time before self-medicating.
America, The Strange 
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