I feel like I've just given birth, though that's likely related to the sheer volume of yesterday's pasta I just pooped out. However, the art project I finally finished pooping out at 1:50 last night is giving me a stronger sense of accomplishment.

One that's gonna change my heart
I'll find it in Commercial Appeal
And then this heartache'll get chased away

Then again, it's usually more memorable when a plan falls apart.

When people like Alan Dean Foster are out roaming your streets, you keeps your ass inside. What choice do you have? You don't want to end up catching whatever it is he has.

AND I AM UNDER SEIGE, AND TAKING HEAVY FIRE. RUNNING LOW ON PROVISIONS, NEED FOOD, AMMO, AIR DROP IN COURTYARD BEST SOLUTION, OVER

Today's poops were solid, until they were not. Very strange hybrid poops. I suspect the changed timing and sporadic stop/start use of doctor-prescribed pharmaceuticals is having an unwanted, and largely undocumented, effect. Then again, I'm not a doctor. I'm a dude with some weird poops today. Oh, and yesterday.

Inside, bitching about wounds, but rejoicing in unpacked-ness. You may or may not want to bother with this one, dudes. It's arty, though. I'll give it that.

Ether This, Ether That, Eat This Sandwich
Sing the hook, whooooayyyyohhhh.

Intarweb wars are lame. But you know what's not lame? MY NEW APARTMENT! Thusly, PHOTODIARY.

WHY IS IT, THEN, THAT YOU SEEM TO THINK IT IS OK FOR YOU TO KEEP BARKING TO ME, LIKE I'M PAYING ATTENTION?

Inside: Rarities, monstrosities, and nostalgia. Sort of. As much as I am capable of.