It typically happens three, four times a year, maybe.  It's not frequent.  But sometimes, just every so often, I unintentionally cover myself in such a dark, grumpy, curmudgeonly cloud that Ebenezer Scrooge himself would raise an (excessively bushy) eyebrow at me and say, "Damn, who dropped the fire ants down his skirt?" The Puddinette and … Continue reading Rising from the ashes of your own angst