I'm having a terrible crisis in my life right now. As much as one can feel as if things are awry, there simply aren't enough road markers that let us know just exactly out of whack we are. Fall asleep at the wheel, end up in Tuscaloosa. Them's the rules.

You see, I'm sitting here eating a tomato while my laundry spins round and round downstairs, and I'm watching Pretty in Pink. Problem: I'm thinking Annie Potts is more attractive to me than Molly Ringwald.

Jesus, is that how you know?

I need to take a break, search for my missing pipe (and a a fine briarwood pipe at that), and search the fridge for nutrition. It's such an awful shame what we savages eat when the womens aren't looking. Oh how good it is to cram the last of the tomatoes in your mouth, the joyous simplicity of shaking the Chipotle seasoning directly into my gaping maw. Did I just dribble a bit? No worries! I'm eating over the sink! Pour down the crumbs from last week's cornbread and wash it all down with 3 cans of Milwaukee's finest. I'm pretty sure, nay, I'm positive that if I eat all the remaining leftovers in the fridge, I'll consume a more rounded diet than any meal prepared by someone else's hands.

OK. Now I'm all better (and Tokyo Drift is on, so I don't have to think about Molly Ringwald anymore). I get cranky when I'm not fed.

I'm also planning a sweet vacation for March where I will rent a truck and spear all my meals on the end of a giant steel pike and hope the sharks don't get me first (I will also have beer). My soul needs a recharge. Any ideas on how to stretch my $47 dollars all the way to the Aloha State, you let me know, aiiight.

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