into the madding crowd the caged cuckoo flies

ihasahotdog.com...
DO IT. It's not that I'm sponsoring mindless procrastination, but there's something to be said for the rejuvenating benefits of not being able to draw breath due to sustained bouts of giggly giddiness.
And it's the time of the quarter when the general philosophy is "every thing goes; don't worry, be happy because it's physically impossible to endure higher levels of cortisone than this----ARRGG WHY ARE YOU NOT DEFLATING???"
If the sentence above isn't resolving itself into anything that makes even a modicum of sense, that's fine. In fact, that's kinda the point. (I mean, what was the point of Sandy's midnight pre-SLE final goth makeover? It was just delightful for plain delight's sake.)

Chronic nonsensicality.
Habitual whimsicality.
Burtonian fantasticality and Dali-esque bizarre insanity.

If you're still find yourself stubbornly refusing to submit to this Faisanite credo, I prescribe a hearty dosage of the fifth season of LOST.
But on a more earnest note, I would like to violently wish everyone good luck on the impeding week of mayhem.
Remember that the robin's egg azure of California skies are ever-forgiving, ever-enduring. Except when it rains, that is.