This morning I woke up with my now-normal intent:
To do as little work as possible, though my character it does dent.

If one cannot think of anything inspiring to write poetry about, one usually has to resort to whatever comes to mind, uninspiring as it may be.

At least I realize that I have innumerable lazy thoughts at any given moment. That is the beginning of altering the offense, no? Motivation, discipline! :-(

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I spent a nice part of my morning calling insurance people, and by nice, I do not mean that it was a pleasurable experience. I suppose that it wasn't really their fault, only I was kind of nervous and kept waiting for them to say things like "What is the 50 digit number found on the under side of the back bumper - answer in the next 40 seconds or this telephone will self destruct and you will never be allowed car insurance anywhere ever again AND YOU WILL SPEND THE REST OF YOUR DAYS CARPOOLING!!!!!!!!"

Most likely I am scarred for life and shall never recover. Just for the record, Farm Bureau gets no points for niceness to terrified teenagers being forced by their treacherous parents to approach impending doom.

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I am a bit dejected at the lack of response to the Uncle Aaron stories. Perhaps you people do not enjoy them quite so much as we did?

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"To Him We Sing," sung by the Lycoming Choir
http://www.lycoming.edu/choir/mp3s/singjoyfully/tohimwesing.html