Much as I love sausage links, they have no place in a respectable venue such as this. They're greasy, which makes it even harder to read the words on the screen, and they aren't really very good for you anyway. So I've decided to use links of recapitulation instead, and make up the difference with chocolate donuts.
Whether gazing through windows or at navals, the aliens are among us, and only ask us to move toward the light. There, multicolored hair awaits, although bloggers will be punished for eternity, or until Spring, whichever comes first. This is no time for mediocrity; it is time for faith, and lingerie, and very long naps.
The cadence of the moon encourages our hatred of butterflies, but rethinking perception is the goal where pamcakes and meebus are concerned. In a relative sense, the loops and bounds of my spastic colon result in that sinking feeling: there's never enough money, no one understands me, and I have a novel to write.
My favorite color—it's the color I hate the most—is red, but I need other colors, too. The long weekend beckons, with its spots and dreams and rapid transit, just because I say so. Not that it's the fault of the windmill, but we must eat, and it's what's for dinner. We don't eat insects, though, or fish.
Separation anxiety—whether it results from glue or dreams about saints—is better than politics, for even dogs know their lassos from their poetry. A fear of problem-solving doesn't require additional tableware, even when death and landfills take the place of dessert. At the seashore, we have no need of television. The moon is an adequate substitute.
Even before 2008 began, Nostrildamus told us what to expect from our children. They are enlightened already, and their only ambition is the truth, imperfect as it is. The irony of zombies dancing in the wind is a far better lesson than Rock Paper Scissors on a cloudy playground at Easter. Even Noah looked toward the next life with a faux pas in his throat, for coffee is a luxury when time is short. The moon has questions, too.
Pranks are for the young at heart, but soul food is ageless. Don't bother answering that; I'm in an awkward stage of life. Two years ago NASA might have done things differently, although they couldn't have anticipated the mucus of politicians with too much caffeine on their hands, and lofty dreams of the Labor Day weekend to come.
How did all this start in the first place? Oh. I see.
Navel gazing can be a satisfying pastime, but when seconds count, I like to focus my gaze on the 
For some of us, the next 24 hours will bring the full range of human emotion. There will be joy as we rip the wrapping from that special gift we've been itching and begging for, and there will be heartbreak—even rage—as we discover yet another pair of slippers, or mismatched socks in a used sandwich bag. 
Some blog comments are nothing short of inspirational. The 
Nearly two weeks left before the new year, but '08 feels like a ghost. Maybe it's the weather, or the economic climate, or a combination of things that have nothing in common with either of those. Maybe it's the glimmer of hope for a better year ahead—for better years ahead—that's at the root of my restlessness. I just want 2008 to go. Now. 
Every once in a while, an eclectic blend of influences conspire to design and manufacture words that might otherwise have been discarded in favor of a more reasoned approach to communication. Influences of this sort are often mistaken for chaos; they seem geared toward subversion; they want to throw reason and logic from the train. But the creative process isn't rational—not in the way mathematics or computer programming are rational—and it often withers when linearity is imposed. 
This beard is 
Monday is the perfect time to contemplate things I might have buried in the landfill of my mind during the weekend, such as morbidity. Although the theory is that the bulk of my organic self will eventually take a long dirt nap, the fact is I've been doing exactly that for the better part of a lifetime. This brings up two important questions.
In theory, software upgrades and toilet cleaning are best left to others. In practice, most of us wind up doing these things ourselves, because IT departments and maids generally resent the idea of working for free. There are exceptions, I know, but then you'd need a lawyer. 
Why is everyone looking at me that way? I can't put my finger [sic] on it, but there's a look in their eyes today. Everywhere I go it's the same. Something about the way they smile . . . but those aren't smiles . . . why is everyone smirking? It isn't natural. Why do I feel like a freak? Is there something in my teeth [sic]? Maybe my skirt [sic] is tucked in my underwear [sic] again? 
Human perception is always fascinating, but it's especially intriguing when it goes terribly wrong and drifts off into the mudhole of misperception. Of course, since the whole business is entirely subjective to begin with, misperception is just as fishy, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't drill holes in our boats when all the lakes have dried up. 
As a literary device, omitting portions of a word—the portion at the end in particular—is often used to denote rough language. This is generally implemented on the written page by an apostrophe in place of one or more missing letters in a word. Used to great effect when, for example, the writer wishes to give a colorful, rough-hewn character an air of gritty nonchalance and missing teeth, the practice is nevertheless tiring, and mundane. 
I enter the room.
After long moments spent hewing and honing a blogologue, it's truly gratifying to hear the three magic words that make it all seem worthwhile. When I hear, "that's really stupid," I always swell up just a little, because I know I've accomplished what I set out to do. 
Hope and Fear present two faces to the world; in secret they confess their unity.
Once the province of stage magic—and, some say, clandestine remote-viewing operations—the ability to read the minds of others is now one step closer to commonplace, thanks to the efforts of researchers at Maastricht University. 
It certainly isn't the first time I've been inspired by Craig Conley's unparalleled handiwork, but I don't recall ever having been inspired in such parallel fashion. 
Punditry suits me. From the fresher vantage point of the morning after, yesterday's incursion into the realm of insightful political commentary was brief, but edifying. I detect, now, a peculiar facility with exactly the sort of in-depth analysis required to quantify the qualifiable, and vice versa. I will demonstrate. 
"I'm watching you, squirrel," said the dog. 
One problem with writing in advance of publication is the risk of outdated information. I had written—and prepublished—Monday's flu-inspired verse on Sunday, fully expecting to be in the same bedridden, feverish condition that characterized the latter portion of My One True Love's weekend. I figured this would give me more time for things like vomiting and diarrhea, not to mention eliminating at least some of the trouble that comes from spewing fever-
I felt the special gnawing days ago
Maybe it's a known feature of the human trajectory toward codgerhood, but I just don't enjoy a challenge as much as I used to. The idea of solving impossible problems no longer thrills me to the point of obsession, which is generally the point at which I stop drooling on my pants and start focusing. No challenge, no obsession. No obsession, no focus. No focus . . . well, let's just say I go through a lot of trousers. 
If your weekend was nothing like mine, you spent it thinking about all those little tasks and errands you put off during the past week, month, and year. Then you fell asleep with your mouth open, angering your spouse and inviting a throat infection. 
There's never been any doubt that 
I don't remember my dreams, mostly. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, because the occasional recollections have convinced me that my dreams are highly detailed, richly colored expressions of nothing. They're three-dimensional in much the same way a computer-rendered object is three-dimensional, which is to say, not really. 
My daughter's first words were "Daddle" and "Mim," which may seem to describe separate entities, but don't. In fact, they were three cohesive syllables she used to name the inseparable whole. The more refined designators that followed were used to issue commands to the Parental Blob, especially on Saturday mornings when her high-volume "MomEhDaddeeee!" informed us that she was awake, and expected us to be, too. 
