False spring has arrived in Illinois, and my nervous system has filed a formal complaint. The birds are thriving, the weather is lying, and my service dog has appointed herself both supervisor and enforcer of my bad decisions. Between migraines, brief moments of peace at the upstairs table, and being herded back to bed like particularly uncooperative livestock, this week has been a mix of soft wins and stubborn survival. Come sit in the Lunatic Café a while. No performance required.