The dog just punctured my arm...bleeding minimal...blood pressure normal at 120 over 80...I can spare a few pints. We like to play ruff.
Speaking of rough, me wee ma and me wee bf downed 3 bottles of a tart cab sauv at Salt of a Saturday afternoon. As seems to de rigeur in that alley, numerous stoppers-by affected our peregrinations sufficiently that I'm free to splog to my heart's content.
Hemingway said the first draft of anything was shit. Clearly not a slogger. Popped his fuckin head off with a 12.
So to appease the domestic parliament, I've forsaken both Salli and Shane's joint 40th, Cameron's 30th, Kenji's inevitable. Its enough to make me support a faster despooling of the life thread. For those of you who aren't here, you should see the new office environment fabricated mostly from great Ikeas, but which will ultimately camouflage the ultimate purpose of what I like to think of as the "Shit Lab". Not that our products will be shit...more so that progress towards evolving new products from this subterranean lillypad demands a line of disinformation designed to free the smugly fucklings from concern. Makes HOW mush sense?
Riding the bi polar thermals is all.
What dya do when your just not cut from the fabric? Sew a new path?
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