David Copperfield

Fairy dust.

In other news, I am enthralled by season won of Prison Break -- it's like a Stephen King novel: totally ridiculous plot, great characters, even if they are cliched, but put together so deftly that all the silliness involved can be forgiven; the PK 27 is not dead, but it might become so when I tyrannically insist that Justin Timberlake's 'What Goes Around...' be involved. If I'm found dead in an alley, blame Jenny Agutter and an as-yet unforseen conspiring contributer (Et tu, Idealjetsam?). The ides of June are a comin'; As a total Manic Street Preachers homer, I have to say that Autumn Song is a phenomenal, um..song, even though it's the power pop equivalent of Mad Libs; I still get headaches when I do push-ups, by the way. When I masturbate, not so much; I haven't seen the series finale of The Sopranos, nor have I watched the series further than its inaugural season, but from what I've read it sounded like the perfect ending. Always leave 'em wanting more and all that. Closure is for owners of dying pets.

That said:

Since April 2006, I've had a very...shall we say, eventful 14 months.

If the Cavs win four inna, I promise I'll tell you all about it, Constant Retard. But keep in mind that you never get what you really want, just what you deserve. Still, there's always a chance.

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Don't stop believing.

(And feel free to beat me to death with a tire iron the next time I make another vague motivational post lead by a polar bear photo.)