So, yeah, just got back from a trip to Walgreens, with Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, and Miguel Sanchez, to get cigars for celebrating things. I however, remain the only one with cigars (some unobtrusive 'tiparellos') because everyone else chose to smoke theirs in celebration of our successful trip to Walgreens.

Dinner with the aforementioned percussionists was ok, though the drummer informally known as "Prince" jabbed quite a bit. The conversation stumbled fatally from the cost of pianos to the cost of the Lawrence University organ, which naturally led to an exploration of the many metaphorical possibilies associated with that particular instrument.

It feels like a weekday; I'm shocked that it's still Sunday. It must be the weather; as I said before, it's pretty dreary here today. It's pretty dreary today, as I said before.

O, and the fact that the newest issue of Time magazine deals with fertility among rich working women comforts me. I guess we've solved the 17,657 issues more important than whiny yuppies who can't get pregnant. I'd better go read the news!

And that is all, really. Except for my epic poem there.