Intense conversation takes place.

Other characters walk away.

Don Draper squints into the middle distance. (Probably lights cigarette.)

Repeat until conclusion of episode.

WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?

ADMIT NO MISTAKES.

Perhaps I would mature at faster rate if I didn’t love super-hero cartoons so much.

When the prophets left,

All of the courtiers and kings

Tore their clothes

But kept their signet rings.

And they filled the courts

With bejewelled mystics holding copper scales

And seers with dark purple eyes and darker tales

And psychics with well-stamped passports

And foreign oracles with vast cohorts

And palm-readers in pin-striped suits

And nervous accountants with gold jackboots

And everyone else who could be counted on to lie.

The stars were mocking in the sky.

As the prophets filed into the graveyard

One by one, to die.

The alley is menacing place. At first glance, they are dark, dirty and claustrophobic. On a more primal level they are unclaimed territory, bastions of anarchy in the heart of civilization. In the alley, you can vividly envision the wide variety of terrible crimes that could be visited upon you just out of the view of civilized people. The alley is a place of infinite possibility, and none of those possibilities are particularly reassuring.

I am not super familiar with this Hunger Games thing. I have thought about picking up the books but what foils every attempt, is the fact that all the characters have really stupid names.

That’s my statement pretty much. Except I think I might be losing some of my novelty value, for instance this coversation took place today.

Male Friend: So did you want me to pick me up around 9ish

Me (thinking I’m hilarious):Sounds good. Wear something tight.

Male Friend: Ok

The way the homoeroticism just sort of goes unnoticed might be suggesting that I’m losing my edge. Are they going to stop ignoring dick jokes next? Dick jokes are my stock and trade. Will people still be able to detect my many levels of irony and self-deprication (Can you now? Or is it gone already?) I mean, what’s going on here. I’m not handsome enough to not be funny, dammit.

I’m close though. I think my eyebrows are a great colour.

The niggling, irrational fear that somewhere, somehow, Margaret Atwood is disappointed in you.