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The sentiment of another writer, whose name was never captured and so escape was unnecessary: If I could get passed my frontal lobe, all would be well. Yesterday, the cosmos aligned in such a way as to malign me with formidable foes in an astrological clusterfuck: pain, panic, and Mexican food.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: