Notes from the underground. Darth Vader on TV. Naked ladies.

The funniest part was when our toddler locked us out of the house.

I would to apologize in advance for the spammy nature of the body copy.

At least you can take heart in the fact that I will not be offering you discount rates on mortgages, and I have no advice whatsoever with regard to your potentially flaccid member. Also, I cannot offer you video clips of hot teenage vixens begging to be sexually humiliated.

I'm afraid this spam is much more benign than that. It's more like when street performers spam you by making music, and glancing suggestively at the overturned hat or guitar case at their feet.

Here I am tap-dancing...get ready your nickels and dimes.

"I say we cook her and eat her."

That is the sound of me becoming giddy with exhaustion and despair, leaning against my wife's shoulder as she stares into space with red-rimmed eyes. After a pregnant pause her mouth drops open like a fish. "...What?" she says, mechanically.

Our daughter has just turned two, and decided to become terrible. She's declared a neverending war against all forms of sleeping. It's four thirty in the morning and the toddler has decided that only losers wait for sunrise -- so, she's come padding into our room in the dead of night to jump on my kidneys. "I awake!" she sings.

Lord have mercy: this is my Twelfth Trimester Report.

I'd like to try something a little unorthodox here.

I'd like to try to explain something about writing by talking about drawing. Don't worry -- it isn't a painfully drawn out, clumsily symbolic allegorical exercise or a quaint Zen parable or a cute gimmick for familiar pedantry.

Instead, it's as literal as words on paper.

Writing? What's writing?

Oh, right. I remember. That what when I type like this. I've been too busy to type, lately. It's been all clickety-click this and draggity-drop that, my brain serving as the wet engine behind a tiny pixel factory, triple and quadruple booked day and night, week and end.

It's almost made up for what a terrible month January was, revenue-wise. But my brain is burnt out, with an icky skin like old fondue through which only the pointiest of stimulus penetrates.

Still, I remember the alphabet. And this gives me hope.

It's the end of the world, as we know it.
It's the end of the world, as we know it.
It's the end of the world, as we know it.
And I feel fine.