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I just realized something. The Super Bowl is America's true Thanksgiving. The epitome of the American Thanksgiving, family and food, leaks onto the Super Bowl, causing short circuited ideas of the underground multimillionaire messiah, pigskin in hand, ushering in a glimmering holiday of progressive, forgiven gluttony and hope. I stayed up until 4:83 making a shining new playlist for Kazuya Mishima. He didn't say he wanted one, but, seeing as how he is easily irritated, I irritated him the previous night, so I thought I'd make it up to him with a pleasant gift. I know it isn't, but it seems like the winter is fading quicker than normal. I enjoyed the rain, so I have no remorse other than the fact that I'll be sweating my a** off trying to sleep for half a year. That's what the farmers called, "summer" but all I call it is a succession of heat rashes and an inescapable metaphysical discomfiture, the ramifications of which daft the sin-subjugating flames of the apocalypse. How mundane a conversation about defeat rolls of the tongue. I think the word tongue should be spelled, "tung". The Southland and I wish everyone a very merry Super Bowl. Waiting and waiting and waiting, I pass life by the by. Who knows what it means, right? "I don't care. Do whatever the ******** you want, Chris." As years go by...