Answer to Riddle #2: A bottle of gin. Easy if you said it with a British accent.

Riddle #3:

The poor have it.

The rich need it.

And if you drink it you’ll die.

The following is from an email exchange between Elisabeth and myself.

We’ve both revised slightly.

Gemma also commented at the end, and with her permission, I include this as an extension of the original conversation.

By the way, read Andrew Heller’s take on Army Spc.

I continue to revise and rework this blog.

CODE

If anyone’s willing to help me expand my html in a meaningful way, there might be an Abe Lincoln in it for you. Oh, hell, there may even be a bucket of Harold’s Chicken with sauce.

Yesterday I needed a break.

Life has been more than a little stressful, and it boils down to drama in the last Nocturnal show, drama with my friends, and drama at work.

None of which I really want to go into on a public blog.

Not so much because I continue to be clueless about it, but because I really don’t have time in the evenings to spend on this blog, and work is too hectic these days to squeeze in a post of a length sufficient to make a comprehensive report.

Talking about objectivism has been postponed a day on account of this just being a really shitty day. For a number of reasons.

I hope to dig into it tomorrow.

~ Connor

before I get onto Serious Stuff.

#5. Sharing guacamole and chicken and shrimp and sipping nuclear martinis in the stormy shadows of Cate’s apartment, at her birthday party, with friends and acquaintences. We shared stories of the strangest people we’d ever known; the people they’d tried in vain to seduce, the dieties they’d allegedly personified, and the giant chickens they’d engaged in fisticuffs.

Information provided by Ashley.

The following was featured on the main screen of AOL Instant Messenger:

Welcome to World’s Largest Scavenger Hunt

This year’s challenges include building a “Calvin Kleinometer,” producing “a McDonald’s Sad Meal” and even demonstrating “that there really is a wrong way to eat a Reese’s.”

Well, what can I say?

It’s the end of another long week of work and I’m exhausted.

Exhausted, and going into a weekend full of parties and drama.

My plan right now is incredibly romantic; I’m going to hop the El back to my cluttered and messy apartment, make a pot of coffee, make a plan to clean, and then start reading Chris Ware as the first chords of the Juno Reactor fill my room.

I feel compelled to write today, but don’t have much to write about.

Yesterday, when I was riding the El to work, I learned that I evidently trust my eyes more than my feet.

The window of the train (one of a kind) was clear and spotless, and a one-way window (to some sort of storage room?)