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Always refreshing,
a silly squeaky pony
sends you happy thoughts.
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Out of the depths of memory, you recall a burning truck of melons speeding down a highway. You should be able to put the interest in the sentence. In fact it may be called a pudding. Those that look for demons shall surely find the Packing Peanut of the Portly Pink.
[Babelfished journal entry vaguely related to the site visit to Pittsburgh before Anthrocon moved there has been removed due to the absence of fashionable yam hats. Plus, I can't find it in my archives at the moment.]
Fuck Tyler Durden; you ARE a beautiful and unique snowflake.
Earlier today, I was pondering perhaps a late start to NaNoWriMo would be in order, as last night right before I went to bed I actually had a story idea of what to write, but I didn't write the idea down and this morning I actually remembered what it was anyway: A 50,000 word story about going to the store or something totally mundane—it doesn't really matter what because although something really exciting could possibly happen in the story, the story never gets there—it gets sidetracked constantly by minutae and extreme, EXTREME attention to detail, wandering off on tangents and bumping into things like a dottering old grandmother with a dozen angry cornish game hens superglued to her face. (And how did they get there?) | 
