Okeydokey.

Last night I dreamt that I slept with some drunken sleazy woman and thus lost my girlfriend. In desperation I boarded a Greek merchant ship that just happened to be docked uptown but was able to escape at the last minute. The town square had two large statues of Greek gods.

So that was fucked up.

Bil, I still have the book you loaned me: The Best Democracy Money Can Buy. It still lives, and is in good condition . . . thought you might like to know that I've not used it as ammunition or donkey food. Especially interesting the way the author shows repeatedly how big news stories that should be important to American audiences are shunned by American media chiefs.

Here is what really annoys me: when you see a book by a celebrity with a cover like:

by Famous Jackass
with Respectable Author
 
I always imagine the Famous Jackass sitting at a jewel-encrusted desk with a nubby, chewed up No. 2, scrawling down "I am big! Big big! I can change my pants!" And then the author comes along and does everything else, and gets a check redeemable at any Kum and Go for three Milky Ways and a slushy. If I was an illiterate celeb I'd just do my damn best and sell the garble.
 
Yesterday I applied for roughly 72 jobs. Or . . . maybe more like seven: Four newspapers, three business offices. It's becoming apparent that I should consider picking up a BA in computer-related black magic, or going to school for a Master's. Cause English profs at Hills make how much money? $31 an hour, according to a Courier want-ad. Dear sweet mother of crap.
 
Plans for my small business have stalled. Although Ryan and I developed an idea for a zombie-themed coffee shop, I learned that necessary machines -- like espresso machines -- cost around five grand. And then I realized: hey! I don't even like coffee. What do I like? Booze. So maybe a zombie-themed bar? Bouncers dressed as zombies can drag annoying drunks out into the streets.