Like some sort of Alfred Hitchcock character, I usually sit for hours in the rear window of my house reading, writing and watching the crazies who begin to come out of their lairs with the first nip of spring. My neighbor adjacent was standing on his balcony yesterday with a green hat on, beer and smoke in hand, yelling insults and spitting bile onto the walkers on the street below. It's St. Patrick's Day weekend, the time when all the lunatics claim to be Irish. Party on, dudes. The cabin fever has official set in. Yesterday, I bounced from my various stations, all designed with great care to stave off the boredom of an unproductive life. It's been two weeks since I was sacked from my job and I don't know what to do with myself. The four hours I spend writing web junk doesn't cut it. I'm in desperate need of distraction. Scott was working at his part-time drone job at the wine store so I was left to my own devices. Fortunately, the spirit of St. Pa...
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