It's time for the spring thaw. The image of a browning holiday wreath in the trash is somewhat of a contrived, though convenient metaphor.
My army of terra cotta beer bottles. They will accompany me into the afterlife. I just filled and capped all of them, and they should be ready in time for my birthday/Kyle's birthday/end of school/moving out of my apartment bash. Maybe I should refer to my birthday as my brisday. That is a much more vivid image, though a birth is pretty gory too, when you think about it. I don't really know why my parents opted for the extra incision. I guess the people at the hospital figured that if they already snipped the umbilical cord, they might as well lop off the foreskin while they were at it. Maybe they did it at no additional charge as some sort of promotional deal: "Free circumcision with every birth." I guess if that's the case, I can't really blame them, my parents. I mean, who wouldn't take a deal like that?
Old man Salinger is dead now. He died just the other day. Just in case you were too much of a moron to know.
Tonight is curry night! Yang makes a mean curry.
