I’ve reached a personal low: eating M&Ms with peanut butter scooped out of the jar and weeping over the death of Tom Hank’s character at the end of Saving Private Ryan just before midnight.

Today’s sunshine cannot blot out the image of myself in thermals and a bathrobe, hair disheveled and bearded, on a couch in front of a television doing this.

The sunshine did, however, save Sinatra from the fate he so richly deserves because he finally went to the door and went out.

The hot water line to my master bath sink also unfroze, so I can shave.

I hope to rally and make it to the omlette party tonight since the ticket was so pricey.

Me alone in my house with the voices between my ears is the most dangerous neighborhood I’ve ever been.

They say more snow is coming.

Pray for me.

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