Pot hole summer.

I apologize for the glaring discrepancy between this post and the last. 
But you see, in my youthful, hopeful, rosy-cheeked return I believed that (somehow) going to Europe for 3 months would make things...well...dissapear.
Or at least better.
(Better would be nice.)
That's all I was hoping for.


But I overlooked this minor, but rather pervasive issue. It is called men. And as Fleet Foxes so wisely croon at us, "memory is a fickle siren song." But in this case the siren's name is man and it isn't pretty. Or a mermaid, even.
This strangely absent but ever-present parasite, man, is the diagnosis for a little phenomenon Brookie has termed "pot hole summer."
It afflicts my bunnies and I in a most vicious strain and finds us invalids on delicious summer afternoons curled up on many  beds in the house in varying configurations (piles, that is) of fury, comfort, or dry-eyed (but drained) staring.


Because, as Fleet Foxes also remind us, "I don't know what to do."
Oh hell.


memory is a fickle siren song. 
blah blah blah blah.
It is interesting to me that everyone I know is either lovey dovey engaged to be married or breaking up. It is also interesting that some people fall in love and get married and others fall in love and get round-house kicked in the face.


Men.
Pot holes.
Summer fun.
Blah blah blah blah blah.