Oh, Miss Quinn. I suppose when a great writer dies, anything written about that person in short lines is a poem worthy of The New Yorker. You and Jean Valentine should be ashamed. Also, JD McClatchy' weedy poetry again? The man needs to learn how to prune.
Yesterday was a wreck. When I came home, I put on Eureka and didn't turn it off but only half-watched it. Mediocre and mundane. Kind of like what happened to The 4400.
I'm a little ill, a little lonesome, a little depressed. Need a posse. And a free gym. And so on.
Hoorah for Mad Men's second season pickup!
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Wow. NBC has balls.
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