I've spent the morning reading Charles Bukowski's Women and talking with my brother over cigarettes and coffee. I'm glad he's around, and thinks the way he does, because not only does he offer worthy counterpoints to my often foolish tirades on (insert subject here), but he seems as convinced of humanity's inescapable idiocy as I do. We tend to yell a lot, accusing each other of being uninformed or refusing to accept things as "facts" (which, in my calmer moments, I realize are as nonexistent as nonexistent gets), and so on, but overall, we both tend to admit that neither of us can really make heads or tales of this planet and its so-called dominant species, man. It sure is fun to rant and rave, though.

I'd like to live in an underground house, something like a hobbit hole, with a lot of wide hallways, solar panels, and vents to let cigarette smoke out. Preferably this place would be difficult, if not well-night impossible, for anyone to casually notice; a nice forest would do the trick. That would also allow me to set up a still, so I wouldn't be handing Jim Beam and his crew so much money. Not that I mind supporting Kentucky's finest, but making my own whiskey would be fun. And productive.

Enough rambling. Back to doing nothing!