(no subject)

That was a very cute Dunkin' Donuts commercial, and I'm not just saying that because it had Nomar in it.

Various people doing laps around Fenway Park, and chugging along the Wall towards the bleachers (left field around towards right field, for the less Fenway-focused; clockwise, for the less baseball-focused). Nomar stops, waves the others on, leans resting his hands on his knees. Long pause, he looks up and sees they're gone; he knocks on the scoreboard. The door on the left side of the scoreboard opens, an anonymous hand appears and hands him that funky ice drink they're pushing, he has a slurp of it, and hands it back with a nod.

Voiceover says that some subset of proceeds are going to his charity.

Meanwhile, Shea Hillenbrand continues his one-man show. (They're down 2-3, both runs solo homers from Shea.) He also fielded a tricky grounder in the on-deck circle. (And the Sox fan he tossed the ball to in the stands looked a bit overwhelmed.) Do it yourself offense, I guess.

Life may, in fact, be good.

I got a strawberry before the squirrels did.

And Derek Lowe is pitching.

Mmmmmm. . . .strawberry. Unlike most other edible bits of plant matter, strawberries don't make my mouth and throat swell up.

Mmmmm. Strawberry.

(no subject)

The tricky bit about the slip-slide into depression bit is even when I notice I'm doing it, it's so hard to care enough to do anything about it.

I haven't been able to write anything for the last couple of days, which kinda hurts after the previous week or so of 300-2000 word days. Just as one of those things that is just that much better than being smacked with a dead fish. I hate transitions; the damn things stymie me utterly and knock me into a universe of complete worthlessness.

The thing about the way this goes for me is I sort of lose track of the ability to tell anyone I'm losing it first. I barely care; how should I expect anyone else to? But I guess I can say it here, can't I? Score one for the information superhighway.