Getting back to "a blogger is to a writer as phone sex is to consumation". We're back, I judge and the indicator is the lack of panic attacks. After the reveal where the guy concedes and the cataclysm imagined by that guy is averted, the Starbucks gift card is redeemed and brilliance returns to the prophesy. It's hard to ignore the humiliation sanitized by determined dalliances and here we find ourselves skimming over the elephant named worst fears. No one is yelling "author. author" here because the play sucked. As recently as 20 minutes ago delusions were being repeated as possibilities so perhaps I'm the one trapped in my own tunnel vision. Is this mike on? Too much early season coddling I suppose. There must be some finishing touches to add to this year but what-the-hay? 2014 will start with zirconium incisors not unlike that Stan Lee commie with the red eyes only mine are blue and my new smile will be game winning. I'll kiss the 60s goodbye during '14 and remain loveable. How's that for resolutions?