The AM said he was sleepy, right?
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body's work's expired.
And ain't that the truth. So, to sum, the weekend treated him well and he's happy to report that his physical, and largely, his mental, states are well-rested and spunky. Would you believe that he even squeezed in a bit of that much-ballyhooed physical exercise he waxed so poetically about a few days ago? Well, he did. So suck on a big one.
One more week and it'll be August. When the AM thinks of August he thinks of the end of summer. Not that it really matters in LA.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet
The basest weed outbraves his dignity;
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds:
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
You know, and so on. Mofos.