I know where the leprechaun is

The Coast is Clear

Refreshing

The Google is watching you.

The Pump House

The Invisible Man

He's actually quite a contortionist. After a few minutes of begging
for a pose, I was finally able to convince him to twist his body for
the camera. No small feat. In exchange for the photo, I agreed to wait
for the next bus so that he could board and be on his way.

Prepare to be sodomized!

Summer is just around the bend.

I've always wanted to carry a briefcase.

Nothing says "success" like a smart looking briefcase made of fine leather. At least, not in my mind.

I would walk to work at a brisk pace as evidenced by the rapid pendulum swing of my left arm; my right arm would remain motionless from the anchor of importance and status. Time is money.

My initials, my monogram, would be neatly inscribed on a gold plate with a carefully chosen font to express my subtle, yet powerful identity.

In social situations, I would make it a point to examine the contents of my briefcase from time to time. Perhaps I would shuffle a few documents around or scribble a note before closing the lid and checking my watch. People would undoubtedly admire my Protestant work ethic: "He must be a very powerful and influential man," they would think.

Along my daily route, I would stop to admire the wares displayed prominently in the window of a well-kept antique shop. The little time capsules would arouse my imagination as I reflect on the craftsmanship and care that went into producing them, recreating the historical context of a time lost.

Alas, the weight of my briefcase would bring me back to the present, reminding me of the tasks and projects that lie ahead. I would take a moment to admire the reflection of my briefcase juxtaposed against my naked and bleeding body. Then I would go.

It's going to be a lovely year.

Or thoroughly evil, depending on your perspective.

In case it was not obvious

Now you know for sure.

A Random Observation from Yesterday!

I noticed a gentleman carrying around a jar of two pickles yesterday. What wonderful little treats to have floating around in a jar! It only occurred to me after he had gone, however, that perhaps those weren't pickles after all.

What if, upon closer inspection, they turned out to be tiny infant's arms with the hands severed off?

I will never know for sure.