I don’t know what the heck kind of oil my downstairs neighbor is burning in her living room scent burner, but it’s making my kitchen smell like either that drugstore cologne or deodorant that middle-school boys wear. You know what I’m talking about? Kinda musky and sorta spicy, yet ... not? All it needs is rank prepubescent-boy armpit, and I’d be in some version of hell.

So the other day after I threw out my little discussion point about the idea of “nutjob,” I was kinda thinking I didn’t want to go back to it because it came out of not-so-great place that I get into every time I have to make a decision I don’t want to make. And now that I’ve tried to sit down and write it a number of different times between assignments over the past day or so, I’ve decided not to do it here because a) it’s been coming out as a big stream-of-conscious thing of epic proportions even moreso than usually comes out of my head, and who wants to slog through that, and b) I’m feeling strangely self-protective, which is kind of unusual for me. I mean, if anyone’s really that interested in waxing philosophic on the finer points of what makes a nutjob, what I’m thinking is not exactly revolutionary and I’m fine with talking about it—just not here right now.