about birth days anyway? I mean when it comes right down to it, the truth is I really do not honestly know the ‘right’ date of my birth. It’s true. It’s sort of like what the 900 number psychic asked when I told her I didn’t know my birth date – ‘Are you kidding? What, were you found under a cabbage leaf?’ And the stupidest (I know I know – that is not a real word) part of that little diddy is that I still didn’t make the connection with the Cabbage Patch dolls. For cripes sake!

I’m going to warn any reader of this blog that this is a feel sorry for myself sort of entry so stop reading if you’re not in the mood.

[Music playing and a short intermission.]

The SO and I had a big overblown argument this evening which really shouldn’t take me by surprise. It’s been brewing for a while.

For my part, what most of this boils down to is I’m freakin’ EXHAUSTED. I mean, really. No kidding. No exaggeration. I am NUTS, Crazy, over the deep end exhausted. Chalk it up to my old age that I can’t seem to deal with more than three nights in a row of interrupted nonexistent restorative sleep. Those REMs must really be at a premium when you’re my age. But really all I know is that I feel Crazy. Certifiable. In fact, if I were having to sit with a client tomorrow, I think I would have to reschedule as I do not think I could ethically do my job. And I am not being histrionic or overly dramatic. Only truthful.

And why, might you ask, am I not in bed now? Because I have worked myself up into a lather and need to try and self soothe for a bit before my head hits the old pillow.

I can say that this is NOT what I wanted or envisioned the 11th hour of my 50th year here on Earth. So much for stepping into the wisdom of my years…

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