I'm asleep on a pile of paper

Well, I guess Tuesday was spring. It was so sunny and mild and so blooming that I walked around my neighborhood taking pictures of flowers and and I looked forward to visiting the Arboretum in the next week or so. And then yesterday, on top of the computer-related emotional roller coaster, the temperature spiked past eighty degrees and the cats melted onto the hardwood and we needed two fans in the windows of the bedroom for me to get to sleep after dark, which made so little difference to the heat that spatch and I both had trouble believing it was one in the morning when it was. Today it is sticky and hazy and distinguishable from August only in that the trees are still in flower instead of that late dry green leaf. I am not looking forward to trying to sleep tonight. I hope our air conditioner is up to it.

Bertie Owen and his twenty-year-old external keyboard are still hanging in there. I am pleased that I was able to finish my interrupted review. I am now trying to decide if I really want to watch Four Daughters (1938) for John Garfield and Jeffrey Lynn now that it's handily on TCM or if it's going to be like that time Seven Sweethearts (1942) happened to me.

spatch found me this excellent Talmudic commentary on incels.

It is too hot.

My heart and I agree, I'm irate

And tonight on our way back from the MFA spatch had to get between me and a violent drunk who was screaming that God was going to fuck me up because I wouldn't flirt with him.

All together now:

LET HIM DIE, AND SHE MAY NOT CONVERSE WITH HIM BEHIND A FENCE.