Good God amighty. This looks like the sort of literary creature who appears at the doorstep of some callow youth to gravely warn him of the horrible fate that lies in store for him if he doesn’t mend his ways. Death by torture, perhaps, or marriage to Michelle Bachman. After which the wraith disappears into the mist. I post this image not out of pride, but because, even though a Photoshop filter has rendered it even more loathsome than it was fresh out of the camera, it perfectly captures how I feel sitting here at two-something in the a.m. knowing I’m supposed to get up at five and not being able to coax myself into unconsciousness. And of what use is the internet unless it’s to allow us to disgorge our feelings into the laps of our unsuspecting online acquaintances in the middle of the night? Even though I feel like the poor sap in this picture, it’s still a bit disconcerting how easily I can actually resemble him. This looks like the first attempt by a taxidermy student whose teacher is trying to find a way to tell him that maybe he’s chosen the wrong major. Or perhaps an oldster who has been sadistically beaten for hours by a motorcycle gang wielding chains and baseball bats, for what reason I can’t think of at the moment, unless it’s just that that’s what motorcycle gangs do to oldsters who cross their path. Or maybe this looks more like a mad genius of the Jeff Goldblum variety whose brain/body exchange with a rhinoceros malfunctioned in mid-transformation. I could go on in this vein, in lieu of opening one of mine, in hopes of boring myself into sleepiness, and I think I will, but I’ll let you guys off the hook and continue with Act Two offline. Yawn.