We   were enjoying a warm, blissful morning at our favorite
bistro on the main   boulevard in Mystic Hollow.   

We?re sure you?ve had similar mornings.      
Not
a care in the world, just enjoying all that nature chose 
 this very morn to give us. Loving what we had set 
 before us.   

We saw a very good, nay, intimate pal of ours walking our way 
 and we beckoned him to come hither.    

Thomas indulged us and joined us at the simple but oh so 
 wonderful table to partake in a discussion.    
 

So there we were having a delightful tête-à-tête if you will,   and frankly why wouldn?t you? 

"Thomas, my good man, how goes thee on this the most glorious of all the days?"   

Thomas
is a sprite, a wit, and never cowers from a hefty argument or fruitful
debate on virtually any issue and so it was no surprise he chose to
engage immediately.   

Oh, such good sport.   

"I
am fine," he said with a nod but the gleam in his eye told me one of
two things: he was ready for a debate — a battle of wits — or he
misapplied his toothpaste that morning.   

(Witty R Us, no? Gleam in eye? Oh dear, we do go on).   

"Why do you say this is the best of all possible days?" he asked sipping a bit of his morning libation. 

"Oh, dear man, good friend, how could I say any other thing and still consider myself to be a honest fellow."

I sniffed deeply to morning aromas that circled the Catina here on the main avenue in Mystic Hollow.

"It is so wonderful, I wish I could stop time to hold it forever."   Thomas, always the joker responded quickly.

"Are you drunk or something?"

He took another sip of his beverage.

"This is like the worst day ever," he said. "It is hot and sticky and the smell is going to make me vomit." 

Hyperbole, a wonderful tool of the witty.   

"The 'smell' as you say, dear Thomas, is a wonderful aroma of
glorious tidings. A melange of nature's finest offered for our
pleasure."   

"Whatever!" Thomas signed as he expectorated towards but not quite all the way to the road just beyond our table area.

"Smells like a clown threw-up. Like cotton candy and Sterno squeezings."   

Oh dear, where does he come up with these similes?

Incredible man.

Darling banter.   

"Still, Mon amigo, it is a glorious day."   

Thomas shook his head and looked towards his lap. He was searching for something.   

"Do you have a cig I can bum?" he asked in the street parlance so popular in these modern days. 

"A 'cig'?" I laughed. "Why my good consort, why would you think I
would have a cigarette? I don't smoke such things."   

He responded, "You must be smoking something because you stink like an ashtray."   

Touché.   

I
responded to his barb appropriately, "yes, indeed, I have just this
hour stumbled from an all-night session of magic and some of the good
fellows there were smoking cigarettes of all exotic types. Perhaps some
of their hearty residue found residence in my garb."   

Thomas sniffed me again and looked towards the street.

He
stepped towards the curb of our town's main street and picked up the
remnants of what was once a full-sized cigarette of uncertain brand
name and without filter.   

"You have a light?" He asked as he shoved the crumpled stick between his lips.   

I accorded his request and enabled the burn he apparently needed so badly.

Poor man.

Poor Thomas.

The devil weed of tobacco had clearly taken him for hostage.

So
deeply lodged were nicotine's talons that he was forced to take up the
horribly unsanitary search for cigarettes not fully consumed by some
unknown passerby.

Their litter, their regretful habits of smoking and littering
actually fostered Thomas some relief from the anxiety.   

Symbiosis by any other name, no?   

He breathed deeply on his newfound cigarette.

He was likely its last owner.

We dare say he would smoke it to its end and not leave any part for a fellow scavenger.   

"Did you see any good tricks?" He asked as calm began to return to his previously troubled visage.   

"Why yes, yes I did, Thomas." I
took another sip of my own drink and a nibble from a delicious pastry
created apparently just for my own craving for something sweet,
substantial, and sublime.   

"Whatcha see?" He asked, donning the 'street' in his talk.   

"Oh, you know the type of tricks one sees at a session. Usually
unprepared and not fully routined but miraculous nonetheless." 
 

"Who was there? That fat guy and his bald wife?" Thomas asked as he took the last full draw from the cigarette.

He apparently burned his fingertips in an effort to savor the last bit of his exotic purchase.   

"Do you mean Guy Tussle and his assistant and life mate, Veronica?"

Veronica wasn't bald by any means.

She suffered a bit of alopecia from a bout of the nerves. They were
planning on taking the plunge, if you will. Diving head-long into the
seas of matrimony.   

"She's not bald," I said rather bluntly.

I was surprised by the indignant sound in my voice and my curt ejaculation.

"She suffers hair-loss when she is anxious and she is indeed anxious as would be any bride-to-be."

Thomas spit again towards the street. This
time the recent smoke must have given his saliva the needed viscosity
to hold its shape throughout its tremendous arching travel to the
asphalt.

"Good shot, sir!" I thought but did not say. I did not want to condone spitting.   

"She's been married about fifteen times. What does she have to be nervous about?"   

Veronica
or "Ronnie" as she is called at the watering hole for all great
magicians in this very magical village, The Thumb Tip Inn, has been
married several times but certainly not fifteen times.   

"I hear," Thomas said, "she's been stoking up crystal meth and the fumes screw with your hair." 

How crass. How crude. How utterly unfounded. I
felt I should come to poor Ronnie's defense.

Although she had a bit of
a reputation for fun and frolic in our small hamlet, she was by no
means a 'meth addict.'   

"Thomas," I said, "You don't know that. How dare you insult our
friend, Veronica. Why didn't she used to be your eye's prize a year or
two back?"   

"No, she was just using me to get some cash. She was going out with Bug behind my back."   

'Bug,' gentle reader, is the awkward and somewhat cliché nickname given to Guy Tussle, magician.   

"Well,
that explains your angst, your regretful statements against her purity
and integrity; as well as your lack of compassion for her hair-loss." I gave a forgiving nod in his direction.   

"Whatever. Was Ronnie and Bug there?"   

"Yes, in fact they were."   

"Was she high or slurring or doing that thing with her jaw?" 

I did not want to get into a debate or discussion about poor Veronica's mannerisms or tics.   

"I didn't notice," I said. "Say, we had a cracker-jack discussion
last night about the popularity of magicians outside our country's
borders."   

Thomas seemed distracted by the visual hunt for another cigarette remnant but ever the gentleman, he responded.

"Oh yeah?"   

"Yes."   

"Like what?" he asked.   

"For instance, do you thing Criss Angel is known around the world or is he just a American icon?"   

Thomas
responded thoughtfully as he dodged an oncoming Toyota Prism after
snagging a rather full-sized cigarette butt from the street.

Darn
those hybrid cars — while they may be ecologically friendly, it will
take a while before pedestrians recall they are almost silent when
driving in battery mode.   

I lit a match and held it out for Thomas as he sat down with stick of stink in position.   

"He's
just a US thing," Thomas sputtered as he exhaled, looked at the
cigarette fragment, wiped what appeared to be lipstick or lip gloss
from the non-lit end and replaced it.

"Blaine is known everywhere. Angel is just like Thurston and Blaine is like Houdini."   

"Wait, what?!" I sputtered.

I was losing my composure.  This was inane.   

"You heard me. Blaine is like Houdini — travels the world, does
crap on everyone's TV and is a household or hut-hold name." 
 

I was becoming emotional.

I record the remainder of our dialog but not without shame and regret.

I dropped to or even below his level.   

"First of all, Tom, there as no television in Houdini's day here or in Europe," I said.   

"Same thing. However they shared news back then. Houdini was on it
world-wide and Thurston was the biggest name in cow towns doing his
rising card deal."   I pushed the table away from my
chair.   

"Forget the Thurston insult. Blaine isn't known for magic outside
of the US. He's known for sitting in a box and relieving himself in the
public's vision for more than a month."   

"He didn't relieve himself in public. They had a facility for that," Tom said.   

"Whatever, my point is that it wasn't magic. The Brits saw some guy in
a box for a long time but that doesn't make it magic. He's not known
for magic. Criss Angel is known for magic. He's a magician." 
 

"Whoa, partner," Tom the moron sputtered.

"What are you like all Broke-back for Criss Angel or something?"   

"What?!" I exclaimed. "You're
a jerk. I'm just saying Criss Angel is known as a magician and as he
continues to develop his career, he's reputation as a magician will
continue to . . ."   

He cut me off.   

"You're a little sensitive about Criss Angel," he said.

"You may be out of luck cuz I think he's getting married or something."   

"I'm not sensitive about Criss Angel or anything. I don't care about
his love-life. You're trying to change the subject because you know
you're wrong."   

Tom became positively immature: "Why don't you marry him and kiss
him all day if you love Criss Angel so much?" he taunted.   

"Why don't you take a big bite out of crime — your mother's fat butt," I blurted.   

"That doesn't even make sense," Tom said.   

I hate that smile he gets on his face. I wanted to knock it right off.   

He continued.

"Blaine is described in the press around the world as a magician."   

"And so is Criss Angel," I said. 

"No, no he's not," the fungus-brained dolt said. 

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is."   

"No, as a matter of fact, he is not!"   

"Yes."   

"No. Hey,
give me another light."

He had found another piece of dried up
cigarette somewhere and was sucking on it like a crack baby on a bender.   

I threw the lighter at his chest and it bounced off his rolls of fat onto his lap and then onto the sidewalk.   

"Thanks," he said.

He was trying to act like it didn't hurt but I know it did. 

I was calming down.  My assault was apparently a fine release for my psyche.

"Criss Angel is having his shows shown in Australia, Europe, and India."   

"No he's not," the human cancer study said between greedy puffs.   

I
hoped the reason the previous owner threw the cigarette away was
because he was in the midst of some kind of horrible seizure from a
very contagious form of TB or Strep or something.   

"Uh, yeah he is, Moron!" I said.   

"Uh,
look who's calling who a 'moron,' Mr. "I only know one force and that's
the criss-cross force and I still do it like a retarded monkey with
gloves on."   

That was low. I do the Classic Force.  I can do a bunch of forces.  He's lying.   

"Oh wait," the closest thing I'll ever see to a real Jaba the Hutt
said. "You can only do a 'CRISS-cross' force. How cute! You even do
tricks named after him."   

"You're a jerk," I said. "Ronnie was right to dump you. She said you always smelled like mayonnaise."   

That stunned him.   

"What?"   

"She said you smelled like mayonnaise all the time," I said.   

"No, wait, you said Criss Angel is having his show on television in India. Are you just making that up?" he asked.   

"No," I said. "I read it in today's edition of Indian Television."   

"Don't jerk me around," the bully said. "I've got money riding on this."   

"You've got money riding on whether Criss Angel's A&E show is
being aired in India? Who would make that kind of bet?"   

He shook his head and spit again.

What a pig!   

"No, nut-jobber," he tossed back my lighter. "I bet Bug that you loved
Criss Angel so much you'd be like some kind of stalker or something. He
said you weren't that obsessed. If
you're reading Indian Television Today to learn about Criss Angel,
you're one step away from going all Jodie Foster on him."

He continued with glee, "Bug said you were all freak-a-doodle for
Lindsay Lohan because he saw your apartment and it's like all-Lindsay
Lohan all over."   

He started walking away — apparently to go collect on his stupid bet. 

"I just think she's a talented actress, that's all."   

"What paper did you see that story in, Stalker-Boy?" he asked over his fat shoulder as he waddled away.   

"Indian Television Today," I said softly.

I tell you, gentle reader, I felt stupid.

"It's known as 'Your One-Stop Source for Everything Related to Indian Television."   

"Oh My God!" he giggled. "What a complete freak!"   

"The article is on the web here."
I said for no apparent reason — it never makes sense to talk in
hyper-links.  HTML is really more effective when written.

"Is that where you read about Lindsay Lohan's mastery of The Charlier Pass?" 

He was mocking me.  He knew that news came from The Irish Times. 
("The Magic's Back for Miss Lohan — So is the Red Hair," Irish Times,
July 2nd, 2006).  Fans in her ancestral homeland were greatly
irritated when she gave into the popular culture by denying, literally
her Irish roots by becoming a blond and loosing far too much
weight). 

I felt like an idiot.

But
I'm no stalker and I don't even like Jodie Foster and I just really
think Criss Angel is a great performer who is unfairly attacked by the
so-called "cool" magicians; while David 'Inanimate' Blaine gets the
press and the rep."   

I felt sick in my stomach.

I regretted eating that fifth donut and ever engaging in the argument.

I couldn't believe Bug set me up.   I should never have let him see my apartment. 

His drug-addict floozy wife-to-be probably needed more money to buy stuff she couldn't steal.

Whatever.   

Still it was kind of a nice day.

I could walk to the bookstore and see if they had any new magazines
about Criss Angel and Lindsay Lohan and whether they're dating and
stuff.

We   were enjoying a warm, blissful morning at our favorite
bistro on the main   boulevard in Mystic Hollow.   

We?re sure you?ve had similar mornings.      
Not
a care in the world, just enjoying all that nature chose 
 this very morn to give us. Loving what we had set 
 before us.   

We saw a very good, nay, intimate pal of ours walking our way 
 and we beckoned him to come hither.    

Thomas indulged us and joined us at the simple but oh so 
 wonderful table to partake in a discussion.    
 

So there we were having a delightful tête-à-tête if you will,   and frankly why wouldn?t you? 

"Thomas, my good man, how goes thee on this the most glorious of all the days?"   

Thomas
is a sprite, a wit, and never cowers from a hefty argument or fruitful
debate on virtually any issue and so it was no surprise he chose to
engage immediately.   

Oh, such good sport.   

"I
am fine," he said with a nod but the gleam in his eye told me one of
two things: he was ready for a debate — a battle of wits — or he
misapplied his toothpaste that morning.   

(Witty R Us, no? Gleam in eye? Oh dear, we do go on).   

"Why do you say this is the best of all possible days?" he asked sipping a bit of his morning libation. 

"Oh, dear man, good friend, how could I say any other thing and still consider myself to be a honest fellow."

I sniffed deeply to morning aromas that circled the Catina here on the main avenue in Mystic Hollow.

"It is so wonderful, I wish I could stop time to hold it forever."   Thomas, always the joker responded quickly.

"Are you drunk or something?"

He took another sip of his beverage.

"This is like the worst day ever," he said. "It is hot and sticky and the smell is going to make me vomit." 

Hyperbole, a wonderful tool of the witty.   

"The 'smell' as you say, dear Thomas, is a wonderful aroma of
glorious tidings. A melange of nature's finest offered for our
pleasure."   

"Whatever!" Thomas signed as he expectorated towards but not quite all the way to the road just beyond our table area.

"Smells like a clown threw-up. Like cotton candy and Sterno squeezings."   

Oh dear, where does he come up with these similes?

Incredible man.

Darling banter.   

"Still, Mon amigo, it is a glorious day."   

Thomas shook his head and looked towards his lap. He was searching for something.   

"Do you have a cig I can bum?" he asked in the street parlance so popular in these modern days. 

"A 'cig'?" I laughed. "Why my good consort, why would you think I
would have a cigarette? I don't smoke such things."   

He responded, "You must be smoking something because you stink like an ashtray."   

Touché.   

I
responded to his barb appropriately, "yes, indeed, I have just this
hour stumbled from an all-night session of magic and some of the good
fellows there were smoking cigarettes of all exotic types. Perhaps some
of their hearty residue found residence in my garb."   

Thomas sniffed me again and looked towards the street.

He
stepped towards the curb of our town's main street and picked up the
remnants of what was once a full-sized cigarette of uncertain brand
name and without filter.   

"You have a light?" He asked as he shoved the crumpled stick between his lips.   

I accorded his request and enabled the burn he apparently needed so badly.

Poor man.

Poor Thomas.

The devil weed of tobacco had clearly taken him for hostage.

So
deeply lodged were nicotine's talons that he was forced to take up the
horribly unsanitary search for cigarettes not fully consumed by some
unknown passerby.

Their litter, their regretful habits of smoking and littering
actually fostered Thomas some relief from the anxiety.   

Symbiosis by any other name, no?   

He breathed deeply on his newfound cigarette.

He was likely its last owner.

We dare say he would smoke it to its end and not leave any part for a fellow scavenger.   

"Did you see any good tricks?" He asked as calm began to return to his previously troubled visage.   

"Why yes, yes I did, Thomas." I
took another sip of my own drink and a nibble from a delicious pastry
created apparently just for my own craving for something sweet,
substantial, and sublime.   

"Whatcha see?" He asked, donning the 'street' in his talk.   

"Oh, you know the type of tricks one sees at a session. Usually
unprepared and not fully routined but miraculous nonetheless." 
 

"Who was there? That fat guy and his bald wife?" Thomas asked as he took the last full draw from the cigarette.

He apparently burned his fingertips in an effort to savor the last bit of his exotic purchase.   

"Do you mean Guy Tussle and his assistant and life mate, Veronica?"

Veronica wasn't bald by any means.

She suffered a bit of alopecia from a bout of the nerves. They were
planning on taking the plunge, if you will. Diving head-long into the
seas of matrimony.   

"She's not bald," I said rather bluntly.

I was surprised by the indignant sound in my voice and my curt ejaculation.

"She suffers hair-loss when she is anxious and she is indeed anxious as would be any bride-to-be."

Thomas spit again towards the street. This
time the recent smoke must have given his saliva the needed viscosity
to hold its shape throughout its tremendous arching travel to the
asphalt.

"Good shot, sir!" I thought but did not say. I did not want to condone spitting.   

"She's been married about fifteen times. What does she have to be nervous about?"   

Veronica
or "Ronnie" as she is called at the watering hole for all great
magicians in this very magical village, The Thumb Tip Inn, has been
married several times but certainly not fifteen times.   

"I hear," Thomas said, "she's been stoking up crystal meth and the fumes screw with your hair." 

How crass. How crude. How utterly unfounded. I
felt I should come to poor Ronnie's defense.

Although she had a bit of
a reputation for fun and frolic in our small hamlet, she was by no
means a 'meth addict.'   

"Thomas," I said, "You don't know that. How dare you insult our
friend, Veronica. Why didn't she used to be your eye's prize a year or
two back?"   

"No, she was just using me to get some cash. She was going out with Bug behind my back."   

'Bug,' gentle reader, is the awkward and somewhat cliché nickname given to Guy Tussle, magician.   

"Well,
that explains your angst, your regretful statements against her purity
and integrity; as well as your lack of compassion for her hair-loss." I gave a forgiving nod in his direction.   

"Whatever. Was Ronnie and Bug there?"   

"Yes, in fact they were."   

"Was she high or slurring or doing that thing with her jaw?" 

I did not want to get into a debate or discussion about poor Veronica's mannerisms or tics.   

"I didn't notice," I said. "Say, we had a cracker-jack discussion
last night about the popularity of magicians outside our country's
borders."   

Thomas seemed distracted by the visual hunt for another cigarette remnant but ever the gentleman, he responded.

"Oh yeah?"   

"Yes."   

"Like what?" he asked.   

"For instance, do you thing Criss Angel is known around the world or is he just a American icon?"   

Thomas
responded thoughtfully as he dodged an oncoming Toyota Prism after
snagging a rather full-sized cigarette butt from the street.

Darn
those hybrid cars — while they may be ecologically friendly, it will
take a while before pedestrians recall they are almost silent when
driving in battery mode.   

I lit a match and held it out for Thomas as he sat down with stick of stink in position.   

"He's
just a US thing," Thomas sputtered as he exhaled, looked at the
cigarette fragment, wiped what appeared to be lipstick or lip gloss
from the non-lit end and replaced it.

"Blaine is known everywhere. Angel is just like Thurston and Blaine is like Houdini."   

"Wait, what?!" I sputtered.

I was losing my composure.  This was inane.   

"You heard me. Blaine is like Houdini — travels the world, does
crap on everyone's TV and is a household or hut-hold name." 
 

I was becoming emotional.

I record the remainder of our dialog but not without shame and regret.

I dropped to or even below his level.   

"First of all, Tom, there as no television in Houdini's day here or in Europe," I said.   

"Same thing. However they shared news back then. Houdini was on it
world-wide and Thurston was the biggest name in cow towns doing his
rising card deal."   I pushed the table away from my
chair.   

"Forget the Thurston insult. Blaine isn't known for magic outside
of the US. He's known for sitting in a box and relieving himself in the
public's vision for more than a month."   

"He didn't relieve himself in public. They had a facility for that," Tom said.   

"Whatever, my point is that it wasn't magic. The Brits saw some guy in
a box for a long time but that doesn't make it magic. He's not known
for magic. Criss Angel is known for magic. He's a magician." 
 

"Whoa, partner," Tom the moron sputtered.

"What are you like all Broke-back for Criss Angel or something?"   

"What?!" I exclaimed. "You're
a jerk. I'm just saying Criss Angel is known as a magician and as he
continues to develop his career, he's reputation as a magician will
continue to . . ."   

He cut me off.   

"You're a little sensitive about Criss Angel," he said.

"You may be out of luck cuz I think he's getting married or something."   

"I'm not sensitive about Criss Angel or anything. I don't care about
his love-life. You're trying to change the subject because you know
you're wrong."   

Tom became positively immature: "Why don't you marry him and kiss
him all day if you love Criss Angel so much?" he taunted.   

"Why don't you take a big bite out of crime — your mother's fat butt," I blurted.   

"That doesn't even make sense," Tom said.   

I hate that smile he gets on his face. I wanted to knock it right off.   

He continued.

"Blaine is described in the press around the world as a magician."   

"And so is Criss Angel," I said. 

"No, no he's not," the fungus-brained dolt said. 

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is."   

"No, as a matter of fact, he is not!"   

"Yes."   

"No. Hey,
give me another light."

He had found another piece of dried up
cigarette somewhere and was sucking on it like a crack baby on a bender.   

I threw the lighter at his chest and it bounced off his rolls of fat onto his lap and then onto the sidewalk.   

"Thanks," he said.

He was trying to act like it didn't hurt but I know it did. 

I was calming down.  My assault was apparently a fine release for my psyche.

"Criss Angel is having his shows shown in Australia, Europe, and India."   

"No he's not," the human cancer study said between greedy puffs.   

I
hoped the reason the previous owner threw the cigarette away was
because he was in the midst of some kind of horrible seizure from a
very contagious form of TB or Strep or something.   

"Uh, yeah he is, Moron!" I said.   

"Uh,
look who's calling who a 'moron,' Mr. "I only know one force and that's
the criss-cross force and I still do it like a retarded monkey with
gloves on."   

That was low. I do the Classic Force.  I can do a bunch of forces.  He's lying.   

"Oh wait," the closest thing I'll ever see to a real Jaba the Hutt
said. "You can only do a 'CRISS-cross' force. How cute! You even do
tricks named after him."   

"You're a jerk," I said. "Ronnie was right to dump you. She said you always smelled like mayonnaise."   

That stunned him.   

"What?"   

"She said you smelled like mayonnaise all the time," I said.   

"No, wait, you said Criss Angel is having his show on television in India. Are you just making that up?" he asked.   

"No," I said. "I read it in today's edition of Indian Television."   

"Don't jerk me around," the bully said. "I've got money riding on this."   

"You've got money riding on whether Criss Angel's A&E show is
being aired in India? Who would make that kind of bet?"   

He shook his head and spit again.

What a pig!   

"No, nut-jobber," he tossed back my lighter. "I bet Bug that you loved
Criss Angel so much you'd be like some kind of stalker or something. He
said you weren't that obsessed. If
you're reading Indian Television Today to learn about Criss Angel,
you're one step away from going all Jodie Foster on him."

He continued with glee, "Bug said you were all freak-a-doodle for
Lindsay Lohan because he saw your apartment and it's like all-Lindsay
Lohan all over."   

He started walking away — apparently to go collect on his stupid bet. 

"I just think she's a talented actress, that's all."   

"What paper did you see that story in, Stalker-Boy?" he asked over his fat shoulder as he waddled away.   

"Indian Television Today," I said softly.

I tell you, gentle reader, I felt stupid.

"It's known as 'Your One-Stop Source for Everything Related to Indian Television."   

"Oh My God!" he giggled. "What a complete freak!"   

"The article is on the web here."
I said for no apparent reason — it never makes sense to talk in
hyper-links.  HTML is really more effective when written.

"Is that where you read about Lindsay Lohan's mastery of The Charlier Pass?" 

He was mocking me.  He knew that news came from The Irish Times. 
("The Magic's Back for Miss Lohan — So is the Red Hair," Irish Times,
July 2nd, 2006).  Fans in her ancestral homeland were greatly
irritated when she gave into the popular culture by denying, literally
her Irish roots by becoming a blond and loosing far too much
weight). 

I felt like an idiot.

But
I'm no stalker and I don't even like Jodie Foster and I just really
think Criss Angel is a great performer who is unfairly attacked by the
so-called "cool" magicians; while David 'Inanimate' Blaine gets the
press and the rep."   

I felt sick in my stomach.

I regretted eating that fifth donut and ever engaging in the argument.

I couldn't believe Bug set me up.   I should never have let him see my apartment. 

His drug-addict floozy wife-to-be probably needed more money to buy stuff she couldn't steal.

Whatever.   

Still it was kind of a nice day.

I could walk to the bookstore and see if they had any new magazines
about Criss Angel and Lindsay Lohan and whether they're dating and
stuff.