True Story

Cooking has slowed down quite a bit, and I have no idea where I'm eating dinners, but apparently it's not at home. Opened up the fridge today and got a big whiff of evil. For some reason I have two pints of whole milk, both of which have gotten tremendously ripe, and now the odor of milky doom has permeated my apartment. This teaches me a lesson about something, but I sure as hell haven't learned it.

The spirit had a point, but Hal couldn't bring himself to throw out his collection of vintage milk cartons (each purchased on a special day: his twenty-first birthday, the second woodstock, the lunar landing, the conclusion of Who Shot JR, etc).

And come on ladies, I know no one reads this blog, but if my lazy ass can spend a few minutes sketching pointless crap then surely your prolific energies can put forth some tasty treats!