I'm reading the Dave Duncan series A Handful of Men, which has the wonderful distinction of containing almost no characters I dislike. Well, one of the female characters, but she has a good reason for being so coldly irritating. I know a lot of women who do that because it's expected of them. Oy and Urgh.

But I got an email from a friend from California today, asking after me, that I had not heard from in ages. That was good.

On the little night table over there (well, it would be a night table if it were next to a bed), there are three canisters. One contains white glitter, one gold, and one purple.

Consider, if you will, the vast possibilities.

One of which could be wasting ones life at the Moulin Rouge with a can can dancer. Now /that/ seems worthwhile. But I imagine Montmartre is hardly the place it was in the 1890's (hell, I wouldn't know. I was probably dying of syphylus in a London opium den).

ah consequences, eh?

<<agé chose>>

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