So it's all little stuff.  Little stuff accumulates.

           It started last night, of course, my bad days almost always do start the night before.*  Yesterday may have been the hellhounds' birthday, but the champagne** was preceded by practise at Colin's tower and . . . we stank.  We metaphorically ingested abhorrent substances.  We performed unnatural acts upon the bodies of previously living donkeys.  It was bad.  My only comfort, such as it is, is that mayhem was general:  I may have been