I didn’t post yesterday because I was exhausted; I didn’t get home from OtherJob on Friday until after midnight.  I didn’t get home from OtherJob until after midnight last night either; it turns out that when we finally get a few days of no-bullshit perfect weather people remember that it’s fun to go outside and do things, and so they do.  I’m still exhausted, and my back hurts.  Today will not be terribly productive.

I got home to three pieces of bad news, only one of which I’m remotely interested in discussing, and honestly I’m not even going to do that.

Because right now I feel like the first black person– no, the first person– to catch George Zimmerman outdoors and alone after dark should shoot him in the face immediately.

And I cannot trust myself to write when I’m in this state.  It’s been almost twelve hours; I’m still here.

Seven or eight years ago, I would have.  Seven or eight years ago I was a much angrier person; ironically, I may have lived in a better world then than I do now.  Little has gotten better.  But I don’t want to write this post, and I don’t trust myself to write this post, so for now, I’m not going to.  If that changes, I might.

But probably not.