I’m not sure that I’ve ever given a satisfactory answer to what did you do today? or what are you up to? (Except, of course, for hung out with my niece!) Satisfactory to me, I mean. You’ve been splitting the atom, and cloning wildebeests, and getting David Duchovny and his wife back together. I’ve been uhm, you know, watching hockey on tv. You say it’s oh, cool. I add Ottawa is playing. You change the subject. I’m also wondering why the surface of Venus is better mapped than the floors of earth’s oceans. And I’m thinking that I don’t typically like short hair, and she is kinda skinny, but I can see the appeal of Audrey Hepburn. But it doesn’t seem like the time to bring it up. You ask what my plans are for tomorrow. I give you you know, the usual and curse writers block. To myself. I’m not sure if any answer I could give would ever satisfy me. I’m not sure that I really care what you think. It’s not you or you or you or you. It’s always me asking. Maybe at the end of the day today, I’ll have a good answer. Though the fact that I’ve already checked whether or not any hockey games are on is probably a bad sign.