This eight-day stretch of work is winding to a close. A holiday approaches. My bro and me've baked three apple pies, test pies in preparation for the ultimate pie experience (i.e. We're now pie experts). This meal is planned. Should be a good time all around. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Hey hey! Guess what I got? My own copy of the bestseller "The Haunted Library." It promises to be a right-tasty delicious book. I plan to rub it with an herb mix, saute it in a white wine reduction and serve with a medley of vegetables. A literal square meal!

This Murdoch fella, he's a peculiar dude. I remember when he got The Wall Street Journal, thinking he'd captured the Advisers's Bishop, and wondered what would come next. He's making his move, and it comes off ... slightly idealistic?! Maybe on paper. The set-up for a world-altering endgame is nearly complete.

My flirtations with acquiring feline companionship've ended with some sort of rejection. I'm not a cat person. After spending a couple days with a cat whom I'd dubbed "Test Cat," I threw in the towel. I just plain can't stand meowing all the time. Question: Does this make me disagreeable?

In my basket at work are several folded cranes and flowers. The basket was designed for holding files. But my files change every day.
I need to escape. How? I'm not sure. Working for my employer is like being in the low end of a feudal enterprise. For now, I'm trapped.

Did I tell you about my lawn? It's huge. The rain soaks in and melts into the sidewalk. The grass is so tall. I've got this tree. It leaves leaves all over. I've no mower. The backyard is a jungle! The squirrels love me. We trade high-5s all the time!

Sometimes my job is such a joke. I'm met with dissention after making a statement like: "Let's think before using a color like red, or blue, in the type of a headline." It doesn't matter anymore. I'm drowned. I can't make myself care anymore. My job is copy&paste, no talking.

Ms. Muffintop and me communicated via chat today. I don't know why it is but I always wonder what she's wearing whenever we talk. Always. Here's what I pictured today: Dark blue blouse under a fitted sweater, probably from TJ Maxx, jeans, boots, subtle hairpins. ... probably way off, as usual.

Sentimental Sunday

To tell you the truth, I didn't think I'd be as affected as I am about about Mr. Obama's being given the position of control of the country. A slight — slight — bit of pride has taken hold in my chest. While extreme feelings of rapture and levity have bypassed me nearly completely, it's comforting to know that citizens in this country feel empowered, that they believe some kind of sea change has occurred — however slight.
In other news, my brother has told me of his plans to possibly move out in '09. If I may introduce an extremely random bulleted list:
= When he pulled into my driveway, he was blasting this song, which I dig.
= He got me so drunk the other night, I had to vomit beside the medical supply warehouse that's situated across the parking lot from the 'paper.
= He hasn't paid any rent. He did pay for the electricity for a couple months, but that wasn't much.
= He doesn't clean the house. I don't know what he does all day while I'm at work.
= He's having a hard time finding a job on J-ville. There's just not that many jobs around here.
= His scholastic pursuits are geared more toward business fare, rather than creative writing. He vies for a degree from an institution that specializes toward this end.
= It's likely that a living arrangement that includes the two of us will not occur at any other time in the future.
Anyway, that's all for now. I hope all of you are enjoying the respective fruits of your respective laborings.

After leaving the paper, having put the three publications to rest, this song came on the radio, a fitting and appropriate transition into a three-day stretch of days off.
It's good to conquer. And it's good that, for the most part, the political garbage is going to settle down. ROCKIN'!

You know, for something I don't care about, I'm spending a lot of time thinking about the election. Not who's going to win, but about how much better everything'll be once it's over. ... Maybe it's just my job, or this time of year, but I really hate being a journalist.

I got hammered for Halloween. Hammered. Me, Ms. Starchild, my bro, we did downtown W-ton. My brother sold tons of cars, Ms. Starchild frightened everyone, and I paraded kingly. It was a stone groove, except for me and Ms. Starchild's tendency to fight while drunk. Nevertheless, fun did ensue. Rockin'!