Title not forthcoming.

The famous actor George Sanders, who committed suicide in 1972, wrote in his suicide note that he was leaving because he was bored.

I read that story when I read his biography, titled A Dreadful Man, in 1979; my Mother was most fond of actor biographies, and I got them after she was done with them.....

She had a first edition copy of A Conversation with Cary Grant which was actually signed by the great man, and it's disappeared. I'd actually kill to get it back.

But, digression is good for the soul.

Until just a few minutes ago, I never believed that anybody could be so bored as to mistakenly down five bottles of Nembutal, scrawl a hasty message, and go to sleep. But with the benefit of living, I can see how the boredom can overcome a man.

Rest easy, my friends. No such finale is planned.

But I am frightfully bored; with the job, with the town, with the cats, and yes.....the same conversations over and over again.

Actually, it might just be a low day, or a low month, or a freakin' low year: everybody has those moments of OCD and the manic and the opposite of manic. There are times when the need for information of any kind, any new mystery or new topic of conversation will make me feel like a thirsty man in the desert.

And then, there are times when I think if one more person, loved or unloved, liked or simply tolerated, makes one more vocal sound...that even so much as a 'good morning' will make we wish (as I seem to perpetually do) that these freakin' windows opened without the benefit of actually throwing a chair through them.

Sigh.

Maybe I just need to throw myself into the kitchen for my annual baking fest.

Or maybe I just need a quiet room and dim light.

A stout ship and a star to steer her by.