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I have no idea what the hell to ‘Blog’ about this week and frankly, it’s pissing me off.

How do all these crime writer/cop guys do it? How do they effectively fight crime while they’re polishing off another novel? Where do they get the time?

Hell, I try and put together a few paragraphs once a week and it’s knocking me sideways.

This whole blog thing was suggested as a way for me to relieve some stress, not add to it! Not that I have any. I’m fine, thank you very much. Just fine.

“You know Carlton, instead of expending so much energy shooting holes in paper targets and yelling at everyone around you, why don’t you try writing down some of your thoughts? Like a journal. Journaling’s very big now. Or you could write a Blog. It’ll help. It’s very therapeutic.”

It’s not like I don’t already have mountains of paperwork to do. Hey, maybe I can take up knitting too. That’s supposed to a calming hobby. Yeah, I’d be great. O’Hara and I could just sit in the cruiser and knit scarves and sweaters for everybody in the Department. Don’t bother turning on that pesky police radio. I’d just interrupt the soothing clickity clack of the knitting needles.

OK. Maybe I am a little stressed. But you show me a cop who isn’t. Besides, it’s not the stress, it’s how you deal with it that matters.

That being said, it has been a particularly tough couple of weeks. We had a few more dead bodies ending up on the doorstep of our fair city than I like. Then Vick decided to let our Resident Sideshow Con Artist work his little spell on everyone.

He was in rare form and this time, he had some help. He conferred with a cat. A Freaking Cat! Come on!

Spencer is giggling at little inside jokes with something that poops in a box and somehow I end up looking like the unreasonable one. I swear, I’m going to have to start wearing a mouth guard at night to keep me from grinding my teeth down to the gum line.

I’m going to go for a walk.

Fine. It may kill me to write this next sentence. But in the interest of therapy and finding my inner Chi and balancing my charkas and all that crap, I’m going to write it anyway: In the end, Spencer turned out to be somewhat useful.

In the end.

He led us to the end of the line on a case. I don’t know how and I don’t care. When it was all over, one of my men, a good man who’s been on the wrong end of my temper more than once, got to wake up and see another day.

I guess that alone is worth him turning my hair prematurely gray.

But I still don’t buy the cat thing.

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