I wonder if the very important thing I try to say every time I post was somehow already said one drunken wordy night and I will never get it back. If I sit here with the drapes closed and my mind open exclusively to the comedy channel, will I finally be funny?

I read once you have to write at least a million words before you write anything of consequence. I'm guessing that person didn't count blogging in that estimate.

Today I left the house, got on a bus, sat for awhile, walked a couple of blocks, moved in place, walked back, sat some more, walked, drank a beer, walked, and got a ride home. Both the cats were asleep. Chiana is propped against my pillow and Vash is on the couch. I will join them in dreamland soon.

Last night I met a friend after work and had a very tasty whisky sour made with egg white. It was in a hip, dim, candle-lit bar, with dark corners and pneumatic stools. Spoiling the mood however was a large flat screen tv over the counter demanding attention. Football, it said, you watch it.

This entry: I don't know how to end you.