So I head outside here in Northeast Florida and enjoy a nice jog in the 72-degree weather. The sun is shining, the humidity is low, all around me my neighbors are mowing their lawns and the air has that clean feel of spring to it.
The writing has gone very well this week (I polished a short story to final draft status and submitted it for review at a great market and cranked out nineteen clean pages on my novel). The Super Bowl is on Sunday (banana daiquiries!). I have a nice bottle of Fume Blanc in the fridge and I'm going to start a couple of ribeyes marinating within the hour.
It's a very nice day.
Then I log onto my computer and find this story. You read about garbage like this and it's a punch in the kidneys. As much as I have some fundamental issues with the way our country has conducted our business in Iraq, I'm thankful that we're pouring our resources into pursuing al-Qaida. The bombings are horrific, but to remotely detonate weapons on developmentally disabled individuals represents a new low, and that photograph of the shoes of the victims is just surreal.