Let's see... William is watching Phantom of the Opera. Max is alternating between the movie and magnetic darts. Alex is writing code for a game editor. Maria is looking for more to explore. Geoff is working at restoring an old laptop. I am avoiding any number of chores and responsibilities; I am doing a very good job, thank you. We all seem to have found new colds, but I am determined that these will be minor illnesses that will amount to nothing but waste baskets full of Kleenex. And I am updating Chickenblog.
While I was brushing Maria's hair, separating strands from banana, I imagined that I had many new thoughts to share, insights, wit and poetry. Alas. I've already bored everyone with my lavish descriptions of our Katamari fun; there was only one taker, and I think it may have been more out of concern than interest. I've already discussed chapter 42 of "We're Moving, We Know Not Where," a true story of drama in the suburbs; also boring. That leaves the weather and plans for Geoff's birthday: It's raining, rather pitifully. Geoff won't accept the utter bliss of having a surprise 40th birthday party thrown in his honor, so...
The Phantom of the Opera. I think that with counseling, some cosmetic surgery and maybe some antidepressants, the Phantom could have saved himself and the object of his obsession a lot of heartache and strain. Of course we then would have missed all those catchy, romantic tunes. Andrew Lloyd Weber can write music.
I can't post pictures from this computer. I can't think of anything to write about, and so: Good night.
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