I keep thinking of little things I mean to post and tell everyone about--nothing more than a paragraph, usually just a sentence about Lance Armstrong or this license plate I saw or what I thought when I looked in a mirror or my birthday or whatever. But it doesn't happen. So I'll just leave you with a CD-burning update; I've been listening to Henry Rollins' spoken word albums for about three days now.
And, oh, Amy? Your package is in the mail.
And, oh, Amy? Your package is in the mail.