You feed it. (Or drown it)
Speaking of sleep, I’ve decided that I finally need to get a bed. Its kind of ironic because I’ve also finally decided that I should mop the floor of my room. I’ve been sleeping on it for seven months without mopping, and now I might elevate my position only to clean the floor. Actually, I don't want to clean my room right now so I'm sleeping on the couch in the living room. I don’t know if that’s ironic or not. I don’t know what that word means anymore. I haven’t written anything in a while.
For all of you curious readers out there, Alan Wong (the real one, not the metaphor) appears to be doing well at the moment. Recently called back for a second audition. For Pipen, the musical (no, it’s not about Scottie, but it never hurts to hope). So the legend continues. Feel free to set him up with anyone you know.
Oh yes, they will most definitely come.
Shut Up, Ray.
I don’t want to say anything about Hilliary Clinton.
Maybe if this piece was more of a narrative, it would be a little better. Maybe if everything was more of a narrative, it would be a little better. You could have a reasonable faith that it was going somewhere, the transitions were evident, and the writing was clear and concise. Nope, instead its random, like a painting by monkeys who flung their scat at a piece of canvass.
Maybe that’s too dramatic. Something should be.
And on that note.
Godspeed, you soldiers of opportunity.
