A. Sparks

I got my hair cut today, here in town, by a girl named Britney. I'm not sure yet, but I think it may be another mushroom. Maybe now that I'm 25 I'll start doing my hair in the mornings. You know how that always happens after you get a haircut? It's like, you tell yourself you're going to start fixing it how they did, but then it never happens.

This morning I woke up from a dream that was so great I got out of bed early to write it down...but it left me before I could. I still have a notebook out. It had something to do with music, guitar and bass and drums, but I can't remember anything else. I should probably have just laid there and let it linger instead of trying to capture it.

Well. My tone is sort of judgmental so far, I think I'll stop that now.

Every day I ride the elevator to work and I think about the elevator inspector, whose name is Amos Sparks. He inspects the elevators in the Medical Plaza and the hospital, and the certificate expires this month. I hope I see him. I bet he's 100 years old.

I saw Christie when I went home on my birthday. We took a series of unflattering pictures together. This is the least offensive.