At some point over this most laborious of weekends, my levels of self-loathing and complete confusion over my lack of any direction whatsoever shot up alarmingly. The immediate effects were akin to my frontal lobes hopping astride a psychotic, runaway horse and off they went! Off at madcap, breakneck speeds, careening spastically to who knows where. The settled, unprovoked parts of me were left behind to mutter and furrow their brows and wring their hands, but luckily were not foolish enough to continue to scan the horizon line for any sight of the insane beast and its hapless jockeys. Things will simmer down, the little lobes will slink home and resume acceptable levels of management over my general affect and impulse control. We will all work hard to make them happy and keep them from wilding away again. Then, one day, in a scene to rival any tear-jerker Black Beauty might offer, I will be strolling slowly past a field where an old mare is laconically grazing. She will look up and our eyes will meet�brown, wizened, peaceful, and calm�like looking in a mirror. No more bolting for her. She�s gotten it out of her system, happier for the struggle, in clover.