Boom! It's early morning again and I've unwittingly picked that same sticky keyboard that I used here at the library a couple posts ago. I can tell because of the distinctly stubborn attitude borne me by the letter "o." If I'm wrong and it was another letter, or this never happened at all, I cannot recall my words. But I think my habit of pounding the "o" will translate pretty soon to increased vocal intensity on that letter as well. It's not a speech impediment; it's a speech enhancement.
I made a budget last night to let me save up for my first yacht. All I have to do is obtain a yacht, and I'm done. I also made a daily living budget, which I am heroically choosing to eschew for the moment because I really want a brownie from the vending machine. I'll be getting that a little later today. Lap of luxury, my friends. All it takes is reckless disregard for financial planning.
I'm just kidding. There's no way I'm touching that brownie. No matter its predilection for instilling a pre-diabetic lifestyle. In fact, dare I say because of that predilection? Indeed I daren't. I know the brownie in question reads this blog. You can't be too careful. Although I guess talking about this defeats that purpose.
There's a reasonably famous young lady, renowned as a pop-country crossover sensation who treats men the same way I treat the aforementioned brownies. She sends me texts and messages and voicemails all day long, and it's really awkward. I mean, we had our chance. Please, just move on. Hush; it'll be better for everyone if we just went our separate ways: you to your public misery, and me to my relative obscurity, maintained despite my sensational rise to fame a week ago after I saved that metropolitan area from that Doomsday device. Secret identities. Crucial.
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