I've got an itch. It feels like anxiety mixed with an overdose of oxygen. I can't seem to angle my computer screen away from the window to avoid the reflection of pure blue sky behind me. And the temperature gauge is reading mid-40s, but it says it's aiming for the mid-60s.
There are only two things I want to do with this kind of day:
Run in a park
Drink on a patio
The itch hit me last night, but I didn't have time to scratch it after a long drive with the Enthusiast and Dobson, the bullet dog, followed by the inaugural barbecue of the season in our new mini-grill. Tonight, though, as Phil Collins sang in the Genesis song, I'm gonna make it right, tonight, tonight, tonight.