It’s really too late to write a post. It’s Sunday night. The sun set hours ago and the air has turned decidedly cooler. My eyelids feel the delicious pull of gravity. The weight of the busy weekend sits heavy on my shoulders and I’m yawning almost as much as Michelle Bachmann at a Mensa meeting. The difference is I know why I’m yawning. Potential topics to write about skip through my brain, but they hold as much appeal as seeing Carrot Top in concert. It’s quickly becoming clear I’d stand a far better chance of hitting some super deluxe winning combo on a flashy Vegas slot machine than producing anything resembling cohesion. With fierce regret it also occurs to me that Joe Biden makes more sense than I do. I momentarily regroup and figure I can streamline my thoughts and come up with something fascinating by browsing the news sites for inspiration. Yet my concentration is so scattered that Rebecca Black’s Friday keeps popping into my head. (Maybe I put it in your head too. That would be sweet. And you’re welcome.) I glance at my printer and try to find deep meaning in the new black toner cartridge purchased earlier today. Shockingly, there isn’t any. I think about food even though I ate a dinner that was absolutely sinful in both taste and quantity. Rumor has it the chef at this particular restaurant was once a contestant on the show Chopped. He lost. When told this minor fact I said, “I guess he didn’t make the cut!” Har har. My dinner mates gave me a good natured smile, but their eyes betrayed faux concern for my mental state. Now the more I sit here the more writing takes a back seat to the most inconsequential thoughts. I wonder why I keep putting off buying new earbuds for my iPod. Red swears by hers. They come from a company named Skullcandy which is so perfect for an earbud maker that I’m consumed with creative jealousy. I also wonder why I first keep typing earbugs instead of earbuds. I lie to myself and say it’s because I’m tired. I remember the World Series is in progress right now. I’m not a big fan of either team, but it is the World Series and I’m an American male. Still, I don’t move. I think about run-on sentences and paragraphs which have no meaning. I wonder how much longer my car will hold out before it’s sent to the Cadillac Ranch, a strange place to send a dead Honda, but I don’t think there’s a Honda Ranch anywhere. Maybe I can start one. I’m sure seeing a bunch of Civics and Accords with their trunks sticking up in the air like baboons in heat would be a huge attraction for both the mentally disturbed and Toyota’s Board of Directors. I wonder how ignorant I’d feel buying a new car. I’m pretty certain these current fancy models do things I’m not remotely aware of, like make toast and talk to the driver in 17 different languages. Hopefully, not at the same time. I notice a penny hanging out by the edge of the desk and pick it up. It was minted in 2004. How much less is it worth now than it was then? I’m sure that can be measured but really, what’s the point? I begin seriously considering sleep and gleefully recall the big switch to flannel sheets which happened this morning. My glee is quickly tempered by the realization a commitment to flannel sheets is also a sound farewell to warm weather for another 6 months. I think about how this is exactly the type of post I really never wanted to write. I recognize that, perhaps, there’s a bit of an addictive thing going on and I will undoubtedly post this nonsense. Then I realize I don’t care because my eyelids are heavier now and the flannel sheets promise so much warmth. Instinctively I understand the time has come to hit the “Publish” button and let the chips fall where they may. Which is really a tragedy, chips falling. If I saw chips falling I’d dive with my hands cupped to catch them which could easily result in an injury. But it would be pain well worth it because is there anything more tragic than wasting good chips? I don’t think so either.