This is how the fire starts. This is how we burn.

Agent Jones switched to the big screen and a grainy video of MoMo sitting at his enormous desk, a swivel-hipped Elvis clock ticking behind his bewigged head. 'Death to the capitalist pigs! Death to your cinnamon bun-smelling malls! Death to your power walking and automatic car windows and I'm With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic of ChaCha will never bend to your side-of-fries -drive -through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that corruption! MoMo B. ChaCha defies you and all you stand for, and one day, you will crumble into the sea and we will pick up the pieces and make them into sand art.

How I'd love to get away from here and be someone else for a while in a place where no one knows or expects certain things from me.

Writers are also sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.

Reason was for suckers and Presbyterians.

To those who will see, the world waits.

Live life as if today is your last day living. :-)