Greetings, humans. It is I, Yola, attempting to bump Zipper into the archives where he/she/it can hunt safely in the dark. Today is Monday and I'm a tweensy bit to the good, thanks to the Benadryl snacks from the boys at the Yukon (mwa, mwa, love you guys. Seriously, that's love with a big ol set of batteries and a bag of chips. Ah, the memories. Was that last night?). I have a plethora of meetings to click my way through this afternoon, so I'm just going to hitch up my stockings and get real with y'all.
What's playing on the toaster? Something by Tangerine Dream. They should all be called something because I can never remember their titles. TD is the soundtrack to the Quaalude and Allerest portion of my life which…today…seems to have returned in its fullest, most pillowsome glory.
What was I talking about? Oh, right. Sex. Don't ever ever ever ever do the deed with someone has a fungus. Rule one. People will laugh at you and call you names. Rule two. What are you doing have sex when you should be writing? Nicola Tesla never had sex, did he? Look how productive the man was.
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Speaking of sex, who's that studorific new Follower in the movie star shades? Is that Brad Pitt with a six-o'clock shadow? Trot your hunky ashes down to the Yukon some night, Cap'n Brad, and I'll haul them off to Fantasyland.
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