Life's a Peach and Then You Die

The hardest part of writing is the first sentence.  You may have some morsel of inspiration, whether from a purposefully perplexing History Channel special on the theory of theorems or the much more mind-muddling magician who just stole your wallet, but until you have a punctual family of words, that inspiration is left constipated on a thought toilet somewhere in your 250 Sq ft San Francisco brain.

Unfortunately, my shit was just interrupted by an email: "You've been assigned the task 'Clean My Small Apartment'.  Contact task poster now."  On New Year's Eve of last year, my resolution was simple: To never work for "The Man" again.  Now, seven months later, I wonder if I'll run into him one day in line for soup.