crayne

When chocolate milk tastes of lemons, it's time to clean out the fridge.

This timeless wisdom handed down through the ages - or at least since the fridge was invented - is as true in our age as it was in days of old.

I had the misfortune of finding out just how true this was when, just now, I tried to drink the chocolate milk that was still lurking in the back of my refrigerator. The fact that it was reciting post-modernist poetry when I picked it up should have given me a clue, but I'm stoic like that.

Ick.

My weekend was filled with adrenaline, hot women and roaring muscle cars burning rubber and tearing up the strip. Or rather, it would have if it had been someone else's weekend and not at all involved me. As it is, my weekend involved cocktails (a Mojito and a Pia Colada) and beers on Friday, watching sixteen year-olds bounce round in skirts that began their career in clothing as belts. Saturday involved a trip to Amsterdam to find out just what happens when someone with a severe phobia of ducks has to confront them head-on. And today, Sunday, saw me amble past stalls to search for more secondhand literature to not read at all.

Woohoo! *cough*

You may laugh at me now.