The Hammer Of Ishmael Versus The Skull Of Randall Flagg...

I have about 348 things that I want to get done tonight. It's 11:38. Close to midnight, and now I can finally relax. And therein lies the problems, my sweet children...because that means that I probably won't accomplish SHITE.

But I did type something. That's one thing, at least. And I showered. Read three comic books. Smoked twice. Have had two beers. Something? No. Not really. But that's fine with me because Hemingway wrote like a horse and ended up shooting himself down like one eventually.

That was mean.

I'm sorry, Ernest.

Wait - no, I'm not. Ernest, you fucking dumbass.