The lady serving me clam chowder today in Ipswich asked if I was okay. Do I look like I'm not okay? I might ask you the same question. Better, I might ask it of your chowder, which often has bits of sand in it. Maybe that's how you know they're real clams.
Can an outside chance of something happening ever be turned into an inside chance?
If this whole enterprise doesn't make sense to you, understand that you're not alone. I am alone with these thoughts. Your choices are to pity me or envy me, which will it be?
I wrote up to three jokes on the train today, while closely monitoring the conversation happening in the seat next to me. Are they worthy?
The battery level monitor on my computer is lying. It also defiantly notes that it is (plugged in, not charging). Why should I even offer you the pleasure of direct connection to current? It is wasted on you, voltaic pile of garbage.
Scrabble in Hausa.
This is a poem I'm working on eventually:
This was the fear they scooped out of Admiral Ackbar's head
It had concessions made to it
It was real, like xenotransplantation or peach trees
Don't steal it.
A Fat Free Food!
"True love is priceless. For true love we pay a price. There's nothing can keep me from loving you, not fire, not ice." -B. Harper