Nestled in the warmth of my office with time to reflect on the past three months.

In the summer I drink clear booze and smoke cigarettes on patios. I take sizeable amounts of other peoples perscription medication, fall down drunk at least twice, and sleep on the beach at least once. Bathing suits and flipflops. My hair is short and my face is shaved. My skin is tan.

In the fall I drink dark booze and pack lips the size of horseshoes. I try and clean up my act and I have more time to come to the office and think. Its pouring down with rain, the drops trampoline off car roofs and storefronts. I wear insulated cargo pants, wool sweaters, and grow what I can of a beard. I stew and invent reasons for unhappiness. I grow tired of inventing reasons and then make other people unhappy. Some times I get hit by a car to break the monotony.

In the summer I spellcheck. And care about starting sentences with prepositions. But not in the fall.

Should I stay open year round or be a seasonal restauraunt? PLay HArd in the summer, horde and gather then shut the gates? Or let the people venture through in December, barstools lined up and inviting muddled thoughts to stew and marinate. I have the feeling Ima like it here. Woodstoves piping, hottoddie sipping, black ice slipping.

I have a work meeting at two fifteen, I should Don Draper a fresh shirt from the drawer and prepare with three fingers of Powers. But its been three days dry now and if my hands stop shaking I should make it a week. Make it a weak meeting. Clammy handshakes and comb overs. Blackberries and power lunches. Rented condos and colonoscopies. Imminent divorce and legal fees. Ulcers.