Dishwasher Pete, marry me. Or better yet, come wash my dishes.

He's right on. I�m worried that I�m heading toward a staid life. A middle of the road middle class mediocre life. I�m worried that it�ll be just good enough. I�m worried that I�m even thinking thoughts like that, that I�ve got the fucking luxury to think these thoughts and that makes me sick about who I am and who I�m becoming.

My mood in Bruce Springsteen song lyrics:

I check my look in the mirror.
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face.
Man I ain�t getting nowhere,
I�m just living in a dump like this.

The rain was woefully insufficient. All that sturm und drang (such thunderous cracks! such black clouds!) for a scant 10 minutes of piddly little rain drops that barely wet the ground. And now it's more humid than ever. Blech.

Also blech: When I was home for lunch I discovered that Harold has moved on from the neat little mouse kills (leaving the intact corpses on the back stoop for me, what a dear creature) into the Ted Nugent hunter league. Still kills mice, but now he's taken to skinning them and leaving hearts and entrails for me. Probably he has a cross bow he hides out back. I also found two other disgustingly mutilated corpses in the backyard. I wish somebody would clean this mess up.