Live From The Moon

If you are reading this, we have actively reached the quarter marlk of the 21st Century. Give yourself a pat on the back. Couple hurdles and mental breakdowns here and there but nobody is perfect. I, for one, am definitely guilty of crab swirling myself into a wicked lonesome existence but at the same time the grass isn't always greener. I'd much rather be piled up alone like Alfred in this Batcave than to have a raging case of stage 4 cauliflower ear from my wife bombarding me about how her friends husband took her to the Botanical Gardens and hired a professional photographer to hide in the bushes and I can't even tell you the rest because I blacked out from horrible conversation and cracked my frontal lobe on the edge of the mahogany coffee table. Sick. This room isn't that bad. The only person to text me Happy New Year on time last night was none other than VIP listener Keisha. Shouts to Keisha holding it down. Wishing everybody the best year of their lives. Live from the moon, Alfred