I . . .

Taken from Terry Teachout, who's been supplying me well today:

I am getting ready for a bland and numbing meeting.
I want to see Mission: Impossible III this week, but it ain't happenin'.
I wish I was able to do something I loved all day long.
I hate trying not to eat unhealthily, or in too-large quantities.
I love my wife and daughters.
I miss my friends, whom I don't see enough.
I fear pain. I'm a bit of a wuss that way.
I hear "Broadway" by Matt Turk, as streamed on Pandora.
I wonder if the last three episodes of Lost will impress the way last night's did.
I regret wasting a good two-thirds of my college experience under the delusion that I was going to be a chemist.
I am not nearly as disciplined as I should be.
I dance poorly.
I sing not nearly as well or as much as I used to.
I cry rarely.
I am not always as good to my wife as I should be.
I make with my hands a damn fine meatball.
I write not enough, or at least not enough of the creative writing that I should be writing.
I confuse laziness for lack of inspiration.
I need to think of a good gift for the wife for Mother's Day.
I should start sending out stories to literary magazines again.
I start more thoughts than I finish.
I finish all the food on my plate--all the time.
I tag Jaquandor. I steal enough from him.

Until Whenever