I've said it before, and now, I know for certain I'm not the only one...
Fuck you and your H2.

I am the proud new owner of a 6.3 megapixel Canon EOS Digital Rebel...

Who wants to touch me?
Heh.

This thing is gorgeous. The processing time for each picture is faster than I thought digital cameras were even capable of. It'll take me a week at least to decipher all the manual functions. And to top it all off... Have I mentioned it's gorgeous?

It's the kind of camera I would trust to care for my cats after I die. Well, you know, if it had hands and whatnot.

Excuse me; I have more drooling to do...

If I started screaming, I wonder if anyone would walk over and offer me a cookie.

Things are so much easier when you're six. Because when you're 24, screaming gets you nowhere. At least, nowhere any good.
Someone should have told Howard Dean that.

My problem is that I know it all too well, and without an alternative out, I'm sitting here, figuratively twiddling my thumbs, hoping something falls from a plane and hits me.

Maybe then no one would mind the screaming.

San Diego for the weekend.
Check on my cats for me, will ya?

Ripped from sleep by the falsity of men and thrown headlong into bloodhound investigation that leaves me dry-handed. Is my subconscious so bored that it must play the arsonist?

Her name was Katie or Kathy or of some similar taste, dyed strawberry blond and smiling.

...then again. That first half of my dream involved unearthing a corpse that just so happened to be alive after six months in the grave - still spongy and pink and looking like Tony himself.

I hate my brain.
I really do.

I could peel this heat from my body and present it to you on a plate.

You, with your frenzied, envied glow, your knife eyes so full of...
Something.
I can't tell.

But here are my fingers, here the pools of my hands, speaking for a mouth stapled shut with self-preservation.