Say It In Your Pajamas.

This morning has been a little bit more surreal than I would have liked. My experience in the coffee shop was a cacophony of Phil Specter nonsense preceded and succeeded by neurotically induced, and I dare say not by me, walk-offs with the worst and the lowest of working class poly-blend sporting high-strung nut jobs. The ride to work was occupied by chapter 3 of the seventh and final Harry Potter book and I'm already feeling the pangs of what urbandictionary.com describes as post-Potter depression. I haven't done a single thing to get ready for my 3 week vacation. I haven't even called people to let them know when I'm coming or going, and I suppose there is something glamorous about that, but I guess it would be more glamorous if I were too busy to make the calls as opposed to simply being too lazy. And if you want or have ever once in your life craved for icing on the cake then I suppose I should mention that someone in the office asked me how I was doing. I'll just leave it at that.

As for ball, RoRo did not hit his 500th career home run last night, but Derek hit his eighth for the season, and really isn't that what's truly important. Georgie hit two homos last night, and Sandy Duncan is beginning to discover the charms of post home run subtlety. The Yankees whalloped the White Sox yet again 8-1, Ozzie Guillen got himself ejected which is the only way he ever needs to be seen. The girls are two games out from the wild card, and seem to be on one of those streaks. We hope it holds, but the fate of Harry Potter takes momentary precedence.

I took the last styrophome cup from the kitchen. I needed it in order to have some ginger peach tea. I fear that some of the ogre coffee drinkers may start bellowing and wailing once they find out. I can be quite naughty sometimes, you see, I didn't really need ginger peach tea. I don't even really like it. I'll just leave it at that.