Today is Sunday, and I am alone. Alone with my secrets, my shame, and my beloved Skittles fruit candies.
Bridgette will be at work until darkness falls, leaving me with only the companionship of two lazy, overplump cat-beasts. The chance of these two creatures comforting me is roughly equal to the odds that Michael Moore will choose a salad on his next visit to Old Country Buffet.
I tried mowing the lawn, hoping that even a meager accomplishment might be enough to pull me from these summertime doldrums. Like Sisyphus with an iPod, I pushed my lawn mower in a series of concentric circles under the sun’s unblinking anus as an eternal, arbitrary curse. Seriously, it was a mildly inconvenient 45 minutes I went through.
Now I am back inside the dark, shaded hearth of my home. I ate a crappy nectarine, which did my mood no good. Everything is terrible now. The truth is not in me. This is worse than the Boer War atrocities, whatever they were.
Goodbye.
UPDATE: Nevermind all this. I just found out that Predator is on TV. That’s a pretty cool movie.
Peter refuses to write another post until someone comments on this one. Consider it done. Get busy.