One last glass of wine.  And this is the last. 

Tomorrow morning, the writer’s a runner, running at least 8 miles on treadmill and coming home to be daddy and get babies school-ready.  Then, tasting at another property with master sommelier person in the morning, first thing.  In the morning.  The book is done, I’m convinced.  Searching for title.  What’s the book about.  IT’s a memoir?  Collection of sketches?  Times and sitting as this, on floor with glass before bed telling self I’ll get up early to run but I might push snooze, and snooze, push snooze and bed, sleep, ignore.  Fuck… I did it again?

Like myself better when I’m a bitter wine blogger, attacking the industry and all the offices, the management, and… no, I don’t.  IS this the last glass?  Yes.  I swear.  Running, in hours’ matter.