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Had Strange Dreams about Turning 48

Well, I've been thinking a lot about this new year, and I guess those thoughts have come into my subconscious in an effort to build a new understanding. Truth is, I'll be 48 very soon, and there's no getting back a single one of those years, or even one of those days. That's just how it is.

Do I have everything at 48 that I thought I would have when I was 13? Noooooo. Oh well. Shoulder up and move on. Keep trying for the time machine and the weapons collection. Also the physically fit body. Had no conception of bald spots when I was 13 and I could run my fingers all over my scalp and find hair.

Moving on. It's quite amusing and I'm not the only one who thinks so, witnessing the faints and the pearl clutching of some at the President's (alleged) opinion of other countries. Even some dudes from Haiti demanded to see a government member to complain about it. El Salvador, too. Yeah, well, if the discussion is going to be about whether your country is a shithole then make sure CSPAN is there to broadcast the discussion in its entirety. I believe it would be quite a memorable event to discuss Haiti trash collection, water purity, and the relative number of people not murdered every year in those balmy climes.

Anyway. I'm another year older and there's a nice long weekend ahead of me to enjoy it. Been giving myself presents at different turns. Allowing myself sausage breakfasts. Knocking off from work a bit early. Alcoholic beverages. Being nice to myself.

As my brother once said, no one's getting up in the morning and thinking "How can I make Sam's day better?". That's up to me. Thanks for stopping by, and have a good weekend.

Comic transcript

Ildjarn, current admin at the computer lab, is talking with the comely Jennifer, who is in search of emails written by members of the Baron university lacrosse team (several members of which have been accused of raping a black stripper).

Jennifer, having crept quite close now, has heard Ildjarn tell her he would not obtain emails from the lacrosse house.

In response, she softly grabs his hand (clad in a glove meant to treat carpal tunnel from repetitively typing). She draws it closer to her bosom and then Ildjarn exhales in surprise as she alights his hand on her round, soft breast. The reader is invited to imagine a "moosh" sound as this happens.

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