I have two images imprinted on the forefront of my sight. One is a bouquet of vibrant stunning flowers, with putrid ugly leaves growing around them. And the image from Iron Chef where the challenger for the foie gras battle demonstrated on camera how to devein the goose and duck liver.

So the mack is unconciously smoldering away. A hot chick wanted me to hang with her on Sunday night, play some pool, few bevvies, and who knows. I met her the night before. But I am so disturbed with my brain that I told her that I just wanted to chill. I stayed home smoked a spliff and watched television in my underwear. By the way I'm liking Six Feet Under a bunch. No small reason being that the characters on there seem more brain porked than I do. There is now a new and severly weighted reason to hate this job, and that is that I actually turned down an invite from a scrumptious babe, because I had to collect my haggard thoughts.

Looks as if I dodged the layoff missle that was deployed today. Hip Hip Hooray. Pom poms, rah rahs, and all that. Fart.