Sunday, August 01, 2004
I still have not committed any proactive action with regards to dismantling the Planter's wart on the third finger of my right hand. Being bored, I shall pluck it off so that I may play around with the blood that always squirts out of the hole I make in my flesh. Perhaps I ought to think of something more constructive to occupy myself with on a Sunday night, but lately, nothing particularly inspires me. My general manager (Donn) at work is a cheery fellow, but unless he is about, I usually feel like a pile of poop. I am probably the surliest baker in all Fuddruckerdom. I also feel like dung when loafing about my house-that-is-not-my-house. I want to go to school.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 7:03 PM]