Have I mentioned my unrequited and utterly foolish adoration for Spike lately?
Which isn't nearly as all-consuming as my equally if not greater unrequited and utterly foolish adoration for Kris Dresen, true, but. . . you know, this sentence can't possibly end well. Best to not have started it at all.
Let's just say the decline of Mickey Mouse (registration required, quit yer whinin') and
Like most guys named Mickey I know, it turns out that my own personal Mouse is a drunken Irishman.
And leave it at that.
It's fine, though. I'm sure at some point I'll fixate on someone who's a) available, b) dates boys and c) is actually interested in me.
And then the Cubs and the White Sox will face each other in the World Series, and wingéd monkeys will fly out of my butt, and we'll all be swept up in the Rapture. Or be forced to listen to Blondie's Rapture on an infinite loop. Or something.
Or I can become a monk. Them Shaolin guys seem to have fun, if you think wearing a wire harness while kicking arse and taking names is fun.