My job makes me stoopid.

Seriously, let's all bow our heads and pray for this book I'm working on, because if I stay at this office job for any great length of time I think my brain may turn to oatmeal. And not even the good Quaker oatmeal with cinnamon and the nice man on the front, I mean the yucky plain-flavored, store brand oatmeal that can double as wallpaper paste.

And then I'll be so impaired that whatever semblance of what was my book will be this:

"I dreyve in car many far places. Car durty. Me durty. Sun come up a lot and me cold. Sumteyemez play geetar. Me eat lot peenut buttur. No hav munny. See manee corns. The end."


Let us pray. Amen.