Cells die time before time and be born anew. Welcome to the first division of this One. I'm terribly busy unpadding my cell and unstraightening my jacket, so don't expect me to Dostoevsky on you or something, and don't be surprised if this one dies like all its other motherfos. Yet, something strikes me right left and center about this manifestation, so perhaps it will stay. If that's the case I'm just going to have to find out how to add images and change font and all that nonsense, don't you think?
To set the scene: In my mama's office of infinite feng shui, sitting on a blue armchair, Blues travellers on iTunes, typing on Mickey, my new best friend, silicon being far more useful along side plastic and metal than stuffed atop a chest full of flesh and blood. Ignoring my some 200 emails that have my inbox some 90% full, as I learn to distinguish between Want and Need, Going to and Have to, In the time I have before I'm off to french class.
Oooo. Leo Sayer's You Make Me Feel Like Dancing just started. What a great headbopper hipshaker.
I'd like to be a dancer. No. I mean. Really, a dancer. What say the universe about that?
Enough. Onward ho.