Time on me is wasted time

Bump. Bump.

In the night.

We had at least 100 trick-or-treaters come through.

It was good birth control.

Kids going into diabetic sugar shock.

We went to a jazz show tonight. The vocalist's name is Nancy King. She is the bomb-diggi-tay.

Previously, we did some soaking in the new hottub.

It's nice.

I have been running and climbing and running and climbing, getting ready for snow season. Fitness is so important; if your legs don't respond to your brain immediately, you're pretty much screwed.

I would rather starve that eat your bread.

We tackled the final cardboard fortress on Friday. Organized the office, moved some chairs, yada yada yada.

I wanna tell you about my good friend. I ain't disclosing no names, but he sure was a good friend.

And, I ain't gonna tell you where he comes from...

There is blood on my guitar. I was rocking and I didn't realize I had cut my finger.

It was fairly disgusting. The strings and pick guard were splattered red. There were also droplets on my shirt.

It is, indeed, a long way to the top, if you want to rock and roll.

Marching Georgian feet, yeah.

No placce for a street-fighting man.

I will compromise. I will compromise. I will compromise. I will compromise. I will compromise. I will compromise.

(I won't compromise.)

You're dirty and sweet, oh yeah.