The Sun...Is out today. An estimated high temperature in the low sixties.
O Rochester, thine springtime is but a retarded tortoise whose smiling, wizened face, although late to my doorstep, is a welcome sight indeed.
I shall sit on my patio, beneath a giant umbrella (so that I may keep my ghoulishly pale skin as corpse-white as possible), and indulge in a Corona with lime -- perhaps two -- and just...Chill. You know, like the dead thing I am.
Random thought of the day: Anyone else feel intense embarrassment while watching Gonzales whimper and poop all over himself during the hearings?
Ah, probably just me, then...