“Plum blossoms bloom,
And pleasure women buy new scarves,
In a brothel room.”

“The mind was dreaming. The world was its dream.”

― Jorge Luis Borges

An immigrant friend interrupts my writing to ask me to spell the word “busy?”

I’m pretty sure that’s irony.

Annnnnnnd … my descent into the Shanty Irish Existential Vacuum continues, as my friends persuade me to try cheap cigars. (If it’s $1.50 at 7-11, it ain’t no Cuban.)

What’s next? Pot belly? Receding hairline? Wifebeater t-shirt?

I’m going to be Al Bundy by the time the Mary Washington College Reunion rolls around …

“Fickle Muses” magazine isn’t exactly “fickle” if they reject every poem that I send to them. That’s more like … “Adamant Muses.”

Oh, well. They were still nice about it.

From my note tonight to poet Dennis Villelmi:

“[A] failing of mine — perhaps my cardinal failing — is that I am fundamentally distracted by women. If God exists and wants us to be productive writers, Dennis, then why does populate the world with such fair and endearing diversions?”

So my New Year’s resolution is less Facebooking and more writing. If you people see me on there too much, I want you to spank me.

Some of you more than others.