Fireside Night on the Hill

Greetings from Pittsburgh, PA.

I write to you this night from the cosy basement bedroom of my mother's farm-type property in western PA. True, not as many pot-holes or dangerous-looking teenagers as my home turf in Columbus, but comforting all the same.

What've been up't Markre?

Good question Mystery-Voice.

I've spent the last week in Granville, Ohio. Home of my alma mater Denison University and my dear dear girlfriend DESTRUCTICON. Indeed a relaxing tyme was had as my body grew pale and flabby from hospitible treatment and excessive sleep. Not that I was tan and firm to begin with... Hmm. To the eliptical trainer!!

I saw two ducks fighting over a girl but I broke it up.

So my g/f is moving to the South soon for her debut as a professional actorbe. I am proud of her, but it makes me sadly reflect upon the encroaching adult world. Plans must be made and leases must be signed. It can be scary to grow up and become responsible for one's own future. Idle speculation can lead to spinning of the wheels and inertial build up. Personal mission statments must be written and implimented ASAP. As Sex in the City woman said on her inferior computer : When did the future stop being fun and start being scary?

I don't watch that show.

You do.

I am am man. I change tires and check oil.


Poetry makes me gnash my teeth until they break. That's how much man I am.

So, I started writing this tasteless comedy sketch about Roman Polanski coming home to find his murdered wife, Sharon Tate. It is far to dark and blasphemous to ever reveal to anyone or anything. It is strange that I felt inspired to write it. I guess that the muse knows no censorship. Still though, lines must be drawn and ethics must be adhered to. Behave yourself, you!

Monkey poured coffee in mein (m)boots!

Markre