Mailing it in.

My buddy Reed, who lives in Lubbock and goes to Texas Tech (shout out!), has a house in the middle of town. Until recently, this domicile housed a strange collection of furniture from his family, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, teachers, pets, the guy from the gas station, the guy from Foot Locker, and pretty much every other human being who has walked the face of the Earth. When staying at Reed's place you could find yourself on any number of combinations ranging of pillows, couches, futons, chairs, the concrete (Daniel!) or my personal favorite, the giant beanbag known as the "Love Sac."

Now many, if not all...in fact, yes, all of my cherished nights spent on the varying arrays of comfortable, nightly rest harbors involved some endeavor of alcohol. These ranged from the night I said to an absolute stranger, "Alcohol makes us friends," only minutes before she threw up all of our said friendship onto me and Reed's laps, to the times that I spent a good fifteen minutes explaining the intricate physics of the fusion that occurs in the Sun only to find I had been arguing with myself. Either way, this graveyard of furniture had seen some fun times, and consequently; some inexplicable tares, stains, and busted parts. I mean this looked worse than the bone yard where the hyenas lived in The Lion King. No joke.

So what am I getting at? The running diary I wrote two weeks ago left me feeling like every piece of furniture in that place, worn the hell out. Unlike those couches, though, I do not have any unexplainable stains on me that leave people uneasy when they are around. On the other hand, I have had no desire to write since then. I realize I have lagged here and on the TPC with Luke, but we promise you gold so stick with it. Just trust us, we are working on it as you read these very words. So sit back, close your eyes, and wait for us to slap you across the face with the billy club of truth, sports, and comedy. Good times await you.

Viddy