Detective, I Don't Know Where The Boyfriend

I Really Am Guilty, Of Many Somethings, All Of Them Lethal And Very Enjoyable And Technically Not Quite Legal.

I Nodded With Genuine Synthetic Sympathy.

In My Lifelong Study Of Human Beings, I Have Found That No Matter How Hard They Might Try, They Have Found No Way Yet To Prevent The Arrival Of Monday Morning. And They Do Try, Of Course, But Monday Always Comes, And All The Drones Have To Scuttle Back To Their Dreary Workaday Lives Of Meaningless Toil And Suffering.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

Happily For Me, Ninety-nine Percent Of All Human Life Is Spent Simply Repeating The Same Old Actions, Speaking The Same Tired Clichés, Moving Like A Zombie Through The Same Steps Of The Dance We Plodded Through Yesterday And The Day Before And The Day Before. It Seems Horribly Dull And Pointless-but It Really Makes A Great Deal Of Sense. After All, If You Only Have To Follow The Same Path Every Day, You Don't Need To Think At All. Considering How Good Humans Are At Any Mental Process More Complicated Than Chewing, Isn't That The Best For Everybody?