Everything where it's supposed to be, I see. I update the yahoo membership profile. I dunno why. It just seemed so, so lame. I wanted to change the picture for my profile to this illustration of hands, but yahoo responded to my attempts with "Sorry. We don't do pictures (anymore)". So here I am. At my desk, sitting. Waiting for that awe inspiring vision to enlighten me so that I might open THE FILE. The file that has ramblings of gripes about my youth, anecdotes of my adolescents, morals to a story that could only be enjoyed by its teller.
While I kick myself over and over again for not noticing if the model who posed for these illustration had been wearing a wedding band, the clock ticks. The sun has disappeared behind the gloomiest of LA smog. I can't help myself. Why hasn`t somebody invented a grease–less popcorn to eat while enjoying the creation process of a hollywood romantic comedy? I lift myself up off the chair, trancelike, and head for the bathroom to wash my hands that smell like In & out hamburger.