I have spoken too much; I will begin again. There I sat with nothingness, yet in the best of company, taking the occasional draught from special water blessed with the ability to render me expediently inebriated.

This expediency was key. My mind had to be quick, fingers nimble, and most of all the tongue. Loose like some salty Singapore chit, it waggled in its silvery recesses and undulated at my beck and call.

I was prepared, or so I thought.

The danger first presented itself as tedium, wrought by the delicate hands of some coarse blacksmith. The metal stung, the words flowing like sewage into my mouth. Tangy, bitter, yet with a hint of lemon that was crisp and refreshing.

I was asked to be a companion, perhaps with the intent of sealing a conjugal alliance. Being a man who enjoys the verbal act of love-making as much as the horizontal lambada, I found the tongues simply did not connect: for a thrust, there was a inexpert parry. A blow here, there, but no wind, no breeze passing by my face.

This was sad. Very, very sad. I suggested reviewing my journal and understanding what the hell I was. This prospect alleviated me of the blacksmith, this california prospect melding back into obscurity.

And then the demons came. Like a bat out of Hell recently arrived to a Denny's for key-lime pie, I indulged myself. No, I glutted myself.

Pointless conversations. Hours upon hours of wondering: why, who, what the hell, and especially "what time is it?" To my mind, "Dear God" answered all of them.

I'll indulge you as to why.

There was a lass from a distant land, where giant bipedal rats occasionally bound across not so prime real-estate. This was not North Dakota or Detroit, but Australia.

She knew of huts from Indonesia, knew in an intimate sense like a lover, ordering premium cable from a reliable satellite service and installing the dish system on their own with no additional equipment to buy.

There were hut apartments, hut condos, small squat huts, shrimp huts, steamed shrimp huts, sauteed shrimp huts, shrimp salad huts, all leading into a breath-taking repository of...huts.

And then flayer-of-child spoke. He had spoken before, but my inebriation was a tad to expedient for me to remember. He had built her home out of child skin, apparently, all the while indulging his free hours by demonstrating Newton's law of inertia with a potato gun and selectively bred hamsters.

flayer-of-child and the one who knew of huts corroborated. Soon there would be huts of children with wings harvested from flies now on worker's comp. They would float across the sky, acting as available housing for migrant farm workers allegedly.

I engaged some personally. Some engaged me. My entries were "really weird." I was happy.

I ended the morning at 5AM, flayer-of-child and his sibling arguing over their unwise Uncle Phil and the questionable disappearance of the Baby Jesus during a production number. I didn't bother commenting...much.

Thus I have presented their word salad to you with my vinagrette after-taste of the whole shabang.

To other matters, a flat screen monitor came to me today. It took a taxi cab and arrived on my doorstep, bradishing a set of heavily muscled features and a heart tattoo with a knife stuck through the middle. I thought the inscription "Bitch" in bold black letters won my heart.

Speaking of which, the bitches that are the US government and Zarathustra U. finally decided now would be a wonderful time to pay me. I finally have five on it, y'all. Praise be to the god of wisdom for kicking the god of ignorance's petty rat ass. That officious bastard can go straight to Hell along with his key-lime pie.

So, Bitch and I are doing well. I hope you are too.

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