Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the shootings at the Safeway.



Gabby wins.

I dreamed last night that I was Bradley Manning's court-appointed... well, hand-holder, I guess, and he was delivered to me in a large dog crate in a shopping cart, wasted and broken from umpteen months of solitary confinement. Nobody seemed to notice when I pulled him out of the crate and carried him around the warehouse like a baby, rocking him to make him stop crying. He weighed as much as a kitten. Finally a large staff sergeant in old-school woodland BDUs saw us and made me put Manning back in his crate, and wheeled him away.

Not sure what that was all about.

Homosexual Agenda, 2012 Edition

Goal One has been met, thankfully, since it was something along the lines of Get Rid of this Fucking Headache Already. Still coughing like a three-pack-a-day sixty year old, but since this is the first day in more than a week that I have not felt like absolute fucking roadkill, I'm marking that one done.

Goal Two probably involves not freaking out about stuff that will not be helped one bit by said freakout.

Goal Three: destroy the family and America, naturally.

Goal Four, if there's time after that: regain cardio fitness and upper-body strength without re-trashing the knees and elbow, all three of which spent 2011 in a state of major malfunction.

In other words, the usual. Oh, and to write every day. Is that five? I'm counting five. Best hop to it, then.