Bunyuns

I'm drained like the batteries in a fat girl's vibrator.

It's been a long day, a long, long day.

I began reading James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and so far it is lovely. It's less like reading and more like listening to music. There's a beautiful fluidity to it, the way thoughts compose themselves in a dream.

There were things that I could've written about, things that I had wanted to write about, but I don't have the time or the energy. Remind me tomorrow to talk about analiths, too much no-talent and the stoicism of bunions. Bunions, kind of like Funyuns, but bad. Or is it that Funyuns are bad too, and perhaps improperly named.