Sorry, folks...

...but I am exhausted today. A post of any substance is utterly beyond my power tonight.
Why am I so tired? Chiefly because I got something like three and a half hours of sleep last night. I stayed up and watched the Leafs beat Boston in a shootout, 5-4. In itself that kept my up an hour past my usual bed-time. As soon as I got into bed, I began to hear one or more cats miaowing pathetically and at length; also rather faintly. This alarmed me. Our cats tend to stay in the basement at night now, as Tux has claimed the two upper floors, and more specifically, our bed. Spoiled dog. But rarely do I hear a peep out of either cat. In fact, my morning routine goes something like this: hobble out of bed, shower, get dressed, take Tux out to purge, check to make sure the cats are alive, have breakfast....
Down I went to seek out our little furballs. I found them cuddled into a kitty-pile on a recliner in the basement, looking at me all innocent-like. Back to bed. Oddly, I didn't feel overly tired, even though it was past eleven at this point. I did, however, fall asleep soon after.
At ten of two, Pizza knocked on my back door, seeking immediate exit at high speed. Pizza does this...it's part of his routine. He is a beloved visitor who nevertheless always seems to have to vacate my premises on the double six or seven hours after arrival. I love the guy, I really do, in spite--or maybe because--of his greasiness, his cheesiness, and his marked propensity to strike up an argument with Stomach, a rather acidic relative of mine. The argument always esclates to blows, and Pizza is always dispatched, but never without inflicting damage. Like an idiot, I always invite him back.
Stomach set to grumbling about Pizza after he had evacuated, making assorted and sundry threats to trash the rest of the place and throw it out too. I hurriedly constructed another door made of fabric, the better to contain any ejecta, and wearily crawled back to bed.
Eva has been overheating at night, lately, so we've just changed our sheets to the summer set, rejecting the supremely comfortable jersey-knit in flavour of a standard cotton-polyester-glacier blend. I'm not used to this yet. Even after the electric blanket has warmed my side of the bed to something approaching tepid, I'm still tossing and turning against the slickness of the new sheet set. It doesn't feel like my bed. So on the inside, Stomach is roiling; on the outside, Ken is rolling, and in sympathy, Tux is lolling around and doling out an occasional lick, timed to coincide with the onset of sleep.
The alarm went off much too early this morning.
So tonight, I'm heading off to bed good and early, having not eaten any pizza. I expect to be dead for the next nine hours or so.

G'night.