I know, I haven’t written in a while. Wretched of me, isn’t it? I have the best of intentions each morning to write at night. I don’t know why, because as far as I can tell, the night likes to gather all my creativity in a glass and then sing song "no no, it's just at the bottom, have a sip, you'll see!" and before you know it, I've decided that I'm going to start churning my own butter like Laura Ingalls Wilder. Still, everything's better with butter.
In fact, I had an entire letter beautifully composed and flowing with mad lib-ian poetry in mind but then, scotch. Sadly, you’ve not ever warned me of the effects of scotch. Why didn't you warn me? The letter went nowhere except the sofa of my mind as my mind rested on the sofa. It is now lost forever in the sloshy synapses of Balvenie-soaked brains. Since when do I drink scotch, you ask? I don't even know. But I do think that if I ever Scotch Guard my sofa, it's going to be a big man in a kilt who bellows things like "Aye, ye canna si' there, lassie. You're a wee bit topply with the drink." He may or may not take my sofa, but he’ll never take my freedom.
And so I leave you with this thought: No matter how hard ants work or how disciplined they may be, they do not understand their place in the world because they are not afraid of feet.