"DO YOU THINK ME HANDSOME?" SAID ROCHESTER. OR DERK.

Egad and zooks, in the same incoherent sentence.
Not that I care, but...
I've hardly found time to loiter online in the previous weeks, what with a hurricane and destruction and death and Seussical and so on.
Seussical. Good God.
I dare not dwell on such a subject at the moment. For the time being, I'm thoroughly engrossed with Urinetown, as I can actually tolerate the music. And, I know I won't have to perform it come November.
Ahh. Now, that's what I call a good show. One you never have to do. Or audition for.
[Editor's Note: Wow. Lots of emphasis in this post. Seems as though someone is trying to make up for a lack of real emotion and sarcasm in her life through pointless HTML.]
Nonetheless, I straggle along, unsure of where I'm going of course. I have little energy, and far less stamina, to compete in the rat race of life. And yet, I sit here, fried to the bone with something, anything I can get my hands onto.
And rambling. Rambling seems to help.
I assumed that by sitting here and pouring out my relatively censored heart to you that I would regain any missing strength and integrity, pick myself up, and march boldly ahead to new horizons, as the original cast of Star Trek would do.
Am I yet to accomplish such a brazen goal? Yes.
Am I completely and utterly hopeless? Not yet.
Am I getting fearfully close? Good God, yes.
Ahh. Those are the words of encouragement I like to hear!