Yeah... So I tried to post several pics. A "pictoral history" so to speak. And this, the Christmas Pussy, is the only one Picassa didn't fuck up. Or maybe I did something wrong. Anyhoo, I'll figure it out. FYI - The girls are still fucking adorable and I'm still in love. You can paint the pictures with your imagination for now.

Three questions:

Why is it that if you leave cereal stuck to the side of the sink bowl in the morning, it turns into a cemented piece of sticky rock by the afternoon?

Why is it that in scary movies, the character who is about to be killed in a dark room always has a flashlight that only produces a tiny pinhole of light instead of lighting a larger area?

Why do people who are home during the day get so excited when the mail comes? (Then always look a little sad when every day it's the same - bill, junk mail, bill, supermarket flier, personalized labels attempting to con you into donating to a charity.)

Lost in the Translation

There's no plane flight. No travels for work or pleasure. I haven't left my heart. Or lost a loved one. I haven't switched jobs, gone to jail, won the lottery or anything else of any consequence. I'm just writing. To myself. Quietly. With nothing to complain about or anyone to complain to.

I've really got it made right now. (but don't tell anyone)