Well well. Pushing for a record in the month, as well as a century in the year. Plus, there's more of you all of a sudden (chatty motherfuckers too, aren't they?) and I'm compelled to mark the holiday.
So...nope, I got nothing. Which is not to say my days are smaller than normal-rather, they're markedly harder to describe. I might, for example, relate to you the story of my acquisition of a sort 0f creche-blanket, complete with a Negative Zone face. Or a short dialog betwixt myself and my favorite solipsist, or the brief bright moments I spent with some of my fairer coworkers today. Or something about vicodin. I might wax poetic about fucking vicodin. But to tell you the truth, I'm all worded out for the moment.
...
All Saints tomorrow, All Souls the next day. Come Saturday, I might need some looking after.
...
All Saints tomorrow, All Souls the next day. Come Saturday, I might need some looking after.
