Alas, Sam Moon, we meet not again

Yet.

Funnier this, that I shouldn't have sent that last american email from the bathroom, lest I be accused of snorting coke there. Which, irony of ironies, I was. Flashbacks to the Brass and other false accusations. As Kerouac noted of Cassidy, this time I was demure (and so no John A's were soiled). But the girl who liked me yet confessed her boyfriend of afar was left to gape in wonder at the turn of events.

So much is random. And this email I will almost have to blog. What else does one say, when the retrieved camera has run out of horsepower?

Tomorrow is Friday. In a word, "yes".