Well, let's see here. I'm sitting on a patio, smoking a cigarette right now. I finally realized why Hunter S. Thompson always had his cigarettes in a little mouth piece thing; it's because the damn smoke rises into your face when you're trying to write. It's a conundrum I'm currently facing, and it's devilish at best. But that's not why I'm posting this, and it's certainly not why the post title is "shite." It's because I couldn't muster the energy to write the damn saga I promised myself. So, what now? That's a good question. I guess I'll start with a haiku.
We're looking down on Wayne's basement.
Only that's not Wayne's basement.
Isn't that weird?