It's eleven minutes after midnight on a Sunday into Monday. Shouldn't something good be on television?
I've stopped on Comedy Central to watch Futurama. But I hate that show.
I could read some more, but I've been doing a lot of that lately. And I feel as if I'd fall asleep if I read another word.
I could pop a DVD in, but then I'd actually have to sift through the hundreds that I have to finally watch ten minutes of some second rate flick before angrily turning it off to choose another film. So that's out.
I could listen to music, but blasting some tunes at this hour could force the parental units to like, kill me.
It's a sad existence when the best activity seems to be staring at the candle on my bookshelf, watching the flame flicker back and forth. I've tried to explain this idea to countless people, most recently Mel.
There's just something about watching fire (whether it's a raging inferno or the tiny flame of a Walmart candle) that is very comforting and real to a man.
And I've just struck on something.
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