(no subject)

Kevin told me in bed that I smell like thyme in the morning. Good ol' roasted potato. This potato hasn't found any wet earth yet to stick his roots and grow from. In fact, this potato doesn't know what to do with his life.

Mr. Potato was looking at his writings last night, done during a time when he was part-time and decided on creating a career as a short-story writer. Mr. Potato was shocked to realize that his writing wasn't very good, and much use for anyone (except Reader's Digest.) Mr. Potato was sad, so sad. Thyme-scented pearls began rolling down his baked face, splashing onto the dining room's glass table. The room was soon smelling like a roast dinner gone bad.

Fortunately, Mr. Potato has a new plan. He might become a literary agent! Business dinners at the Met Bar, movie deals in L.A., 1st class flights between the publishing capitals of the world. Mr. Potato could be so happy. Mr. Potato, therefore, would like to encourage all his little piggy friends to send him their written works: novels, erotic fiction, memoirs, photography books. Mr. Potato is not picky. Mr. Potato will take care of it all and make sure the publishers pay the highest price for printing your work.

Mr. Potato is now going to read his email and reply to your lovely comments. Be kind today: eat a crumpet instead of a potato.

(no subject)

There's a shit-load of horses, horsemen, carriages and perhaps even the Queen, going down Kilburn Lane! And the horsemen look like they are five years old!