I’ve used the term “excremental day” a lot, lately.

     I should trademark it.

     It’s been a rough few weeks.
     I’ve had a Partner company screwing an end-client pretty hard.  They don’t mean to, they say.  They apologize profusely to me, instead of the client.  A little, “Oh, we’ll take care of your pissed off customers, considering it’s our fault!” would be nice right about now.
     I’ve had a stalker. I’ve come to some unfortunately conclusions regarding “who” it is, and ”why” they might be doing it.  It’s not something I’ve done, mind you, but rather just some little grade-school jealousy which certainly isn’t my problem — neither business nor pleasure.  *shakes head*
     I’ve had friends telling me, “I’m falling in Love with you!” just because I’m “Mr. Smoothe” — such things as asking them if they’d like a drink when I go to the kitchen.  (Thanks, Swanky — I think you’re right)
     I also found out one of the songs I wrote this week was way, way too similar to an obscure Nine Inch Nails remix, “Closer to God” (yeah, not that radio crap, “Closer,” and it was only the chorus, but it’s certainly close enough to make trouble).
     Like an animal, indeed.

     Speaking of animals….

     I’m a hairy guy, destined to be at least as hairy as Robin Williams by the time I’m fifty.  And though this bit doesn’t really belong in the Canonical “psycho” List (this one was just a witch with a capital B), I haven’t written about Psychos (ex-girlfriends or otherwise) in a few days, and I kinda missed the topic.
     Anyway…. 

     The other night, I started talking to a woman who was a friend-of-friends, and even though I was wearing a “wife-beater” with a shirt over it, she decided to exclaim:
     “Hey, when we leave here, can we all go to my place?  I have a pool!  But ya know what I hate is hairy guys.  I don’t want to clean out the filter.”

     Kinda ticked me off, given that she’d asked me to come home and give her a once over.  She saw my body hair all night, and continually made comments about how she’d love to run her fingers over my chest.
     I was typical “nice guy.”  I told her, “No thanks, sorry, I’m not ready for that.”

     Of course, Hell hath no Fury like that of a woman scorned.  Kinda like Ms. Flakes & Nutjobs.

     It kinda worked on my nerves, anyway.  When you add to that the extreme heat and humidity we’ve had lately, it’s no wonder that I now have a Number 2 haircut.  Military style.
     And a Number 2 everywhere else.
     But, the beard’s still a Number One.

     I have to go, tho … my chest itches.