I admit it. I love television.

Some of my more literary friends would probably gasp in horror now and say things like, "Oh? Television? I don't watch it. Never have. I have no idea who Alex Trebek is." Or something. 

The other day I was reading a magazine, when I came across a story about an Italian guy who started an urban legend by writing a novel.  It’s the typical tale of a young writer who nobody wants to publish, so he self-publishes.  His romantic story about a guy who wins the heart of a girl by putting a lock to symbolize their love on the oldest bridge in Rome, and throwing the key into the river, becomes a huge hit with the adolescent crowd.  A ritual is born.  

The South is a wonderful place to live but we have some customs that should just plain die.  I'm speaking of course of the mullet.  That essentially redneck hairstyle that consists of short hair in the front, long hair in the back. 

Someone tell me, and be honest, what the f*ck is the point of the pinkie toe? You know the one. That little useless bastard hanging out with all the other toes as if it serves any purpose. F*cking poser. The one with the pathetic little nail. The one that seems to have less joints than all the others. It provides no balance. Why? Because it has no strength. 

I live across the hall from Damien. I live in apartment 2A and she’s right across the hall in 2B. Oh, and she’s also only 4 years old. Don’t kids usually start talking by the age of 4? Well, not Damien. She growls. Like a dog. Like a rabid dog who sees you with HER food in YOUR mouth. I’m quite surprised she hasn’t attacked me or one of the other neighbors yet 

Time was when I could spend the day connected to a liquid caffeine IV and still get eight hours of sleep that night. Sure, I regularly woke up shaking and in a cold sweat. But who didn’t?