If Philosophy was Spelled 'Jack Daniels'

As it turned out, my premonition was well placed and well timed. My weekend was nothing short of a five second commercial from hell, minus the pretty girls in provocative you-know-whats'. All I had was exactly two-and-a-half minutes to breathe, six minutes to sip coffee and three minutes to make observations about a well groomed belly after a heavy meal rocking like it were at sea. I wasn't getting sea sick, but my eyes felt heavy most of the time. I had about fifteen minutes to make contact sideways with a fluffy personality and toss around like a helpless meat patty. I am such a loser. Well, sometimes.

Most of the time my spectacular personality (you can call it my alter ego, in a blue suit with red underwear) is busy making people feel good about themselves, as I rescue their cats from trees and feed their puppy dogs clam chowder soup, as I fly around tall buildings striking efficiently calculated poses straight out of a body builder's guide to math. My other traits include writing incredibly wrong, grammatically incorrect sentences so as to make the reader hate himself/herself for reading this segment and commit harakari in sheer disgust. Ah, what a lie. Most of the time, I brood. About my life, my job and my job. Did I mention my job?

Saturday started off on a rather religious note since it was Ugadi, the New Year commenced for some of us. Well, Happy New Year, ye Hindu Cows. So, most of my morning was spent at the Hindu temple in Malibu where I was at my best, indulging in a pious celebration and making greedy demands to the Almighty to grant moi a wish or two. Everything was perfect, except my mind, my ability to stay focused.