Dear Zorro,

We all know that you’re the cutest boy-dog on the planet. You don’t have to prove it by pretending to look at the screen of my laptop, and you REALLY don’t need to prove it by using the backspace key as your personal chin-rest.

There are six dog beds and seventeen thousand pillows in various places in this house, not to mention the whole bottom half of the bed, and if it’s attention you require, rolling over on your back is much more likely to elicit the response we all know you really want: belly rubs.

Much love,

Me.

PS No, don’t eat the letter. Silly dog.

I wander from the computer to the kitchen, from the television to the bedroom, fluttering between them, but I never manage to settle into one place or one activity.

I open Word to do some writing, and the blank screen mocks me, taunting me like a French stereotype.

I contemplate making the stir-fry I’d promised Fuzzy a few days ago, and go so far as to take the meat out to defrost, but the kitchen is a mess, and I can’t summon the engery or motivation to do anything about it.

My hair feels dirty, and my skin feels too tight around my temples, and at the tips of my fingers and toes.

I want a bubblebath, but I don’t want to commit to the necessary time required for a good soak. I want to read, but nothing interests me.

I’m not hungry, but I’m craving…something. Something I can’t name. I’m not sure if it’s a flavor, a texture, a scent, a sound, an image, or a combination of some or all.

I feel blank, like clean paper, but with none of the associated possibilities.

I feel fractured, like a reflection from a broken mirror.

I want. I need.

I don’t know.