I would post a poem, but that has been a trend of late, and I would hate for those of you (I do not know who you are, or if there are any) who are regulars to arrive, taste buds cocked for something startlingly new, and say:

"Snaps. Another poem. God forgive the repetitive bastard."

Instead, I give you a juicy nectarine to comfort you in the hard times. "Year of the Spider" has hit Gold status, with sales numbering five hundred thousand, one hundred copies. This brings righteous tears to my weary eyes.

Have I told you that I fully intend to name my son Langston, no matter how pale or Caucasian he is when he is spat forth from my beloved's womb? Thus it shall be. I'll write it into the damned marriage contract. No wedding without the pudding.