Chicken and Telephone Ice Cream

If I were forced to fess up and resolve something, I guess I'd resolve to finish what I start. You know, as long as it's convenient and there's not something else I'd rather be doing... like watching television. I sure do like television. Or eating chocolate. No conflict there, chocolate knows where it stands with me. High priority that, chocolate. I couldn't just abandon it trying to fulfill some half-assed pledge I made in a burst of shortsightedness.

I'm full to bursting with shortsightedness.

A little while ago, minutes actually, I finished reading "His Dark Materials" trilogy, which I recommend. More interesting than the Lord of the Rings and better written than Harry Potter, it ripped out my heart while I watched and threw it against the wall and all I could do was gape as it slid slow like honey 'til it finally hit the floor and laid there, twitching. Then I must have passed out on account of the pain, but it's a small price to pay I say. No pain, no brain. As it were.

For some reason, the part of my head that tells me what to write wants more than anything in the world to be Hugh Grant right now. It wants to blush and correct itself and subject the world to its neuroses and its cuteness and then be seen cavorting about with Hollywood madams. That just won't do.

Better cut it off before