My computer is off on a lark of its own today, doing gawd knows what, so everything is moving along like a snail on Prozac (so said Eva Shaw). Gears are grinding, yellow lights are flashing, and it's totally out of my control.
So the fascinating tale I was going to tell you about a quivering bed, and what I found while picking up litter the other day, and how we've skipped a season, and a sore-armed Corona drinker is just going to have to wait until tonight when I am once again allowed to use this beast without some smarty-pants Artificial Intelligence commandeering rights to its sole and exclusive use.
Maybe after American Idol.
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