Writers have taken hundreds of pages to essentially express what I just wrote. Sure, it's more detailed and stuff, but simplicity, just saying something to the point...it has a charm to it.

See. I'm bone-ass, spank me with a wet noodle tired; it doesn't work. I'm tired: it flows, readily identifies itself. It's its own passport, carry-on luggage and beverage service.

You can tell I'm tired because this has absolutely no point. I'm not sure if this is a bad thing.

I'm debating what to do. I have all day to study for one midterm, which I spent almost all of yesterday studying for. The bed beckons me, outstretching it's spring-board arms to cushion me in a comatarific embrace (coma+terrific=comatarific; it really is, so why not?).

I'm going to poke myself in the stomach now.......that was indescribable, unlike being tired.

We have winds up to 40mph outside. It's raining. I'm going to switch to shorts and catalog how many people either stare at me or make a comment. Why? People need a conversation topic. On occasion I supply the demand indirectly.

My ass, as a matter of fact, has been the center of many existential conversations. It was God in the 12th century, now it's the manifestation of my ass in the physical world and what essential qualities people think it has. For example, do I have have a munificent ass? Is my ass all knowing? Can I have three asses and one ass at the same time? These are not so eternal questions that philosophy students have taken up to annoy their professor with.

Only thing I ever got out of the whole thing was knowing a wise-ass is not necessarily an all knowing ass, though it thinks it might be.

I'd make a pun here about being assinign, but then you'd have to put me to sleep. I think I'll do that right now.

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