Hot, Sticky, Sweet.
It’s some kind of humid and the jasmines are in bloom.
It’s enough to make me think Neil Gaiman’s work is non-fiction and more than enough to make my head throb.
Ingrid has been on replay since I stepped onto the 400 bus to Westfield. The alternative would be to listen to T.I. giving me permission to do Whatever I Like.
Excuse me while I expand my blood vessels with coffee and soak in misery with Dan in Real Life.
disclaimer: No. I am NOT depressed. Jeez. I'm just a bit woozy from all those post-xmas shoppers.
Labels: Random
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