Staying Upbeat in the heat.

I am bummed out today. The creative juices are not flowing. The damn cats got me up at 6:30 a.m.
I inherited the cats--one through marriage and the second was left to me by a child when she went off to college. Later, when said child graduated from law school, she came to claim the cat and the cat chose not to leave.
She's a Japanese bobtail, a very clever animal, who was an outdoors cat at the time and earned her keep culling the chipmunk population and intercepting deer mice at the door on frigid winter days. But when we moved in town to a townhouse, we had to convert her into an indoor beast, and she's never adjusted. She's a bit psychotic, longing to slink outdoors like a minature lion.
In short, I am not a cat person, yet I cannot get rid of the cats. The kids would never forgive me if i took the Japanese cat for the needle; and my wife will not part with her gray tabby, which is retarded in comparison to the Asian cat.
I'm at 179, solid, after dipping to 178 yesterday. I'm walking to and fromthe Metro, a total of two miles,. The air is so stale it is like breathing auto exhaust straight from the tail pipe.
I work on my msyery novel at night. I work on my journalism all day. Usually I have high energy and I'm optimistic and firing oon all cylinders. Today I feel like a 1975 Fiat with a bad plud and a leaky head gasket.
I once had a German neighbor who was a chemist and a paint expert. He drove Fiats. He's have the undercarriages sprayed with motor oil and then roar down a dirt road and the resulting undercoat, he claimed, was better than any protective pait; plus it deadned road noise.
He had been married to Gunhilde, a Luftansa stewardess and divorced because he wanted a house frau. He was a handsome man with blond hair and agate-blue eyes and a chemical scar over one lip that gave him the llok orf a dashing warrior. Every eweekened he would arrive home with a gorgeous woman for "a try-out." None every passed. This was in the 70s when women were revoilding against the life of June Cleaver.
I had an eggbeater omlette for breakfast, with mushrooms and chedder cheese thrown in. I had two hot doogs for lunch with a dessert of two Fig Newtons. I've had a bottle of green tea and a cup of regular tea. I feel bummed out. My calls are slow in being returned. I haven't had any offers for TV or radio appearances in days. I feel underappreciated. I really could use a big fat carb-bomb right now; but I won't do it. That's the addict's route. I'll get more sleep tonight and more exercise, after I work on the novel, practice the guitar.