Your affection smells like vomit.

Let’s go!

“It’s literally zero degrees out,” he reported, “but at least it’s twice as warm as it was yesterday.”

That led me to wonder about the concept of half of zero. I can appreciate why there’s no Roman numeral for zero; it’s a very slippery number.

The sidewalks were crowded with drunks, very loud drunks. More than one of the revelers stumbled into the street in front of me; navigating the human obstacle course made the short bicycle trip more interesting.

As I surveyed the drunken crowds, I wondered why they became so obnoxious after a few drinks, when my friends and I are delightfully and irrepressibly ebullient in the same state? Another one of life’s little mysteries, I suppose.

Having concluded my personal maintenance for the month, I wondered what to do with a bag of my deoxyribonucleic acid. I didn’t have to think for long: it’s worthless, so I threw it away. If some mad scientist finds it and uses the hair and fingernails to recreate me, that will be his problem, not mine.

I don’t know what to make of her infatuation. It’s easy to understand the physical appeal, but I’m not sure about the viability of being romantically involved with someone of very limited intellectual capacity.

I heard a story about an American man who’s been happily married to a Japanese woman for decades. They have no common language; she speaks almost no English and he’s even worse at Japanese. Perhaps communication between romantic partners is overrated, so I asked Deirdre what it was like to be involved with a cretin.

“I said Korean!” she exclaimed. “You’re the only cretin I know, you imbecile.”

I was tempted to point out that “imbecile” has a specific definition, but decided to simply apologize instead. Sarah rewarded my contrition with some excellent kimchi, and we lived happily ever after, or at least for the remainder of the visit.

I was originally planning to use precise titles, such as, Creek Turnpike and East Fifty-First Street, 36°05'37 North, 95°42'53 West. I rejected this approach because I was too lazy to determine accurate latitude and longitude coördinates. I did take the time, however, to crop all the images to phi, colloquially known as the golden ratio.

As was the case with Twenty-Three Cinematic Yosemite Panoramas, there’s more to the images than meets the eye, at least over the Internet. The computer program I used to process the photographs broke the satellite images into thousands and thousands of tiny geometric shapes. I’m probably the only person who’ll ever see them, since I doubt I’ll ever print the images large enough for these details to be visible.

I can’t remember if I was ever in Oklahoma, that’s how boring the state is, a state that’s perhaps as boring as looking at Fourteen Oklahoma Highway Intersections.

Curiously, chasing money feels like the right thing to do today. Work is stupid, so what better way to celebrate Saint Stupid’s Day than by laboring? Such drudgery is much stupider than any parade!

“That sounds like a trick question,” I replied. “So tell me, what is the difference between a journalists and a stenographer?”

“I really don’t know anymore,” she said, “and I’m afraid they don’t either.”