The be-an-adult-agony of the week is over, and I can sit and write without the dump-danger of being bagged-up as obsolete, useless or irretrievably damaged (although I am all three, and proud in my exemplary failure) booted and bunged into the local incinerator. Too many unwholly necessary working tasks from my employer, and the need for a cleansing storm overwhelming the senses. Selfish? Oh yes, and so full of ugly pity, witless rage and futile sympathy for my situation, that the coming-home-to-the-self seems the only rational thing to do - the only other alternative is random ranting on Facebook . . .