Plumbing

I could not find the dime store candy at Trader Joe's that you can pick up at any pharmacy, but did find lollipops, and remain inching along in superlative increments. If the aeros are not delivered today either to my box or the office, I may not make it, despite the best of intentions, and sucking the tin of pops continuously. I can still afford the charger-fake cigarette products, but do not know that they would work. I know the aeros do, not perfectly, but they keep me out of pain and allow me to write, and believed they would ship in as quickly as they did with my last order, and I have to get working on my other source. I remember the 1994 Wolf with Nicholson and Spader, enough so that the capsule synopsis refreshed my memory.

This interesting vehicle was on this morning, and for our purposes, would have been worth seeing again, but I cannot fight my body beyond certain levels of fatigue as once able, and was actually lucky not to have any mishaps going from point A to getting home to putting groceries away to going to bed, parking the chair too close to the telephone. I could have fallen. Most of the time I only get lucky because I can reach back and grab the bed posts, which have a name in wood working, but I do not need to sweat that out, this instance of fine craft terminology. I am going to wait a few days and see if my station runs this again; if not I'll see if Azmo has it on instant v. Suppose I can check now, and 2.99 is not bad for a rental; I will sit on this a little, as I have learned to intuit these bland network cycles while HBO doles out real drama!

Wolf is Nicholson's McMurphy in mid-arc ,linked in concurrence , not yet Schmidt, coming to terms, closing his books, but old enough to have the rug pulled out from under him. I am turning a dime on why Nichols twists the story to a literal turning point; consider this flagged.

You can find Jimmi's columns online if you know where to look. I am not going to assist, which is me being facetious with my audience; his diction stomps at you in sandstone clogs, like John Candy doing a lumber only to lose the command of the camera. According to Jimmi's logic, every disabled individual who is successfully matriculated is in denial. He never explains himself, Jimmi Shrode; he is just a shriek of hysteria, like a striated dose of Blade.

I am not particularly keen on the character, or the dynamic spun around Snipes' blood craving. I am bored with vampire literature and traditions, what can I say?

There is a supposed Joe Penny send up on the way which fits here, but it might be something else. So I sit, but the exterminator couldn't wait this morning for the colon that does not know how to quit. I plan my fucking life around these building cycles, and shouldn't have to feel guilty. I wasn't denying the exterminator access, I was cleaning my fucking ass, but all the sudden this Protestant gulag respects my privacy. Mike apologized, but I am still a little pissed. I don't know when to expect the next visit.