I wonder if the Diaryland hit statistics go up or down on Friday in the two hours before quitting time. I'm guessing up. Only Andrew knows for sure.

Does everybody want to know how attractive I am? Just now, downstairs in the lobby, I started rushing towards an elevator that I thought was closing. Having only seen it from the side, I didn't realize that it was actually opening. Well, I suppose the rushing on my part got my juices a-flowin', and just before the door opened I released the tiniest of burps, which was no doubt made nasty by my onion-laden lunch of a few hours before and the cigarette I had just smoked. I had an altoid in my mouth at the moment, but, alas, I fear it wasn't much help. Now, all of this would have been fine had I been alone, but, like I said, I was rushing, and standing right in front of the elevator doors as they opened, putting me face to face with a sassy young brunette, who, I imagine, was not deep in the throes of my charm as a result. I'm not sure how devastating the effects of my noxious release were, as she showed no sign of outward damge, so perhaps my mint saved the day. Perhaps.

Yeah, I'm sexy. You know you want me.

Other than that, after a long day of contemplating my entry, I have nothing to say. Here's how I feel: Imagine I'm sitting in your favorite cafe, pub, or other den of iniquity. You see me sipping coffee, having a smoke, and reading the paper, a slight smile on my lips. You approach, and greet me saying "Hey, Bill. What's going on?" I reply by lowering my paper, as you sit in the chair across from me.

"Nothing, I say. How are you?" I'm happy to talk, it's just that I have nothing of particular interest to say right now. Please feel free to lead the conversation. Just don't try to bring up 'Survivor' unless you're going to make fun of it.

On an unrelated note, I was in the hip part of Chicago last night where all the cool kids play at a little venue called the empty bottle. Just to name drop some, my ex-girlfriend was singing there with the lead singer of 'The Tossers' who I guess, in my ignorance, are a local Irish punk band. Funny thing about the Tosser-boy with whom she was singing: He put on this affectation of a really thick bad boy Irish accent, and made proclamations like 'These are sungs the fockin' slayves on the ship sung, cuz it's fockin' 'ard to werk like a slave.' Now that's witty banter. Later, the ex told me that Tosser-boy was born on the South Side of Chicago. Fockin', indeed.

Luckily, what I had feared did not come to pass: I was afraid that the ears of the ultra-hip denizens of the neighborhood would perk up on my arrival. They would sense an outsider in their midst, and band together to sniff me out. I would be discovered cowering in a corner, afeared for my life. They would descend upon me, shave my head, or make me wear glasses, and adorn me in a t-shirt for some obscure band, imbuing me with instant cred.

Instead, I left with my dorkiness intact and went home.