reality is this: i’m currently blogging in my kitchen, waiting for an english muffin to toast in the toaster oven. i am toasting an english muffin because it is the only thing I could find to eat, and i’m blogging because I don’t know what else to do with these five minutes. I’m reading a book and it’s cold in the house and stee’s at poker and I’ve been home for less than an hour and I already went through eight Oprahs on TiVo and can’t find something to do that doesn’t remind me that I haven’t had any dinner.

So: enter the english muffin. right now my brain can currently handle this debate — butter or peanut butter? i had peanut butter already, around six, when i ate a tablespoon of peanut butter with a stick of celery. that was, technically, dinner. lunch was a slice of pizza just two hours before that.

this, my friends, is the glamour of television.

i don’t even have the strength to use the shift key.

it’s cold and raining and has been cold and raining for so long it doesn’t feel like it’s march. but it’s almost to the end of march already. the marathon was this past weekend, and all i could think was how i at one point thought i’d be running in it. but it went right by. i haven’t logged serious miles since dan and i did the big ten, back when it made sense to wake up on a saturday morning and run, when the mornings weren’t cold and rainy.

this isn’t me complaining, by the way. this is me telling it like it is.

i had this entry planned out about Hairstyles of the Damned, and how it was a book about me and Tyson, and how it led to a conversation we had yesterday about mix tapes, the kind we’d make for each other —

my english muffin just burned.

holy crap, people. i don’t even know what to say about that.

butter, it is.

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