M and his chocolate lab were visiting for a week, and have now left. It was a time of debauchery and old movies, and the near-constant consumption of adult beverages. A real sex drugs and rock and roll kinda visit, albeit a little light on the rock and roll. But now the memories of these glorious perversions are fading from the guest room (now reconverted into my prissy sanctum sanctorum, the perversions only in my head and the allergens assiduously filtered) and my life is returning to its usual quiet rhythm, the soothing emotional metronome of familiar dread and morbid obsessions once again marking my days. This is a good thing, however much fun I had, since my capacity for fun has been irreversibly waning since the early 90's, whereas my ability to sustain a high level of sullen disenchantment has been ramping up impressively and needs attention and refinement if further gains are to be realized. How else can I hope to someday make the regionals of the National Curmudgeon Competition (sponsored by DeKuyper Sour Apple Pucker)? I heard if you can get through the first couple of rounds it becomes strangely easy to reach the semis, because so many of the remaining contenders refuse to show up due to free-floating pique or any number of carefully nurtured private resentments.