Right-o

I love Cracker Barrel. You heard right. Love Cracker Barrel. It may be my favorite chain in the world. Why? Because I like biscuits. Biscuits are brilliant, and most chain restaurants do not serve biscuits. Cracker Barrel, on the other hand, dishes out delicious buttery biscuits with a slight powdery aftertaste for which I have a personal affinity.
Also, the Grilled Chicken Salad and Double Fudge Chocolate Coca-Cola Cake are top notch. You know that notch way up just out of reach, even when you're standing on your tippy-toes and have a pen or a ruler in your hand, the notch where Pan's Labyrinth and a good black T-shirt that doesn't fade usually chill out, that's just about where you'll find that salad and cake. No joke.

Taxes suck (no, Kati, really, I get a fucking hard-on doing my taxes -- shut up, let me finish my thought, okay?). Every time I send mine in, I feel with an unwavering certainty that somehow I have fucked up to such an extent that someone somewhere will learn of the gigantic error I have made, come hunt me down, and not be cute about it like Will Ferrell in Stranger than Fiction. Instead of falling in love with me, the IRS agent will audit my ass all the way to jail. And I make no money, so that's ridiculous. In all honesty I'm probably misfiguring myself out of a bigger refund. So I must reiterate: taxes suck.

This is the most random blog. I have nothing to say. I'm a bit sun-drunk on the gentleness of Florida living. The only thing sobering me up is the insanity that is my novel which is just dribbling with character-driven drivel. Seriously.

OK, I guess I'm going to bed. In all likelihood my five year-old cousin is going to wake me up at some unearthly hour, and really, I haven't been sleeping well. The last dream I remember involved me doing ungodly things with an elderly Native American man. I'll leave it at that. Peace out.