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?

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