In the early hours this morning, drinking my java and smoking a cigarette and watching the light change from pre-dawn to day, I sat and thought, as usual, about life, the past, and my options for weekend entertainment. And I contemplated writing about my ruminations in a rather bucolic piece, full of imagery, allegory, and flowery verbiage.
And then a bird took a shit on my black Armani sweater. So now I'm going to just bitch.
Some things, money can't buy. For everything else, there's skibinskaya.