I'm considering a FadeIn Format Switch (FFS) to 24/7 Christian Contemporary/Hardcore Gangsta Rap.

He is Riz-o.

Yeah, so hey.

I'm feeling good this morning. I don't know if it's all the coffee, the chocolates, or the fact that, for some reason, I've eaten nothing but spaghetti these last few nights, but all seems to be well.

And, see, there are different ways to feel about certain recent events in my life. It's all perspective. Personally, I'm going with this one:

Anything that frees me up to date 18 year olds is A-OK.

Not that I'm that creepy.

Or wealthy.

In news that easily qualifies as the worst thing I've heard all week:

There are no Dunkin' Donuts in Los Angeles.

Apparently, this has dismayed many of those who have come before me.

It's not that I just want a donut. Los Angeles has a surprisingly high number of donut shops and I can get a plain cake or simple glazed fix taken care of on almost any corner.

I want the mythical, much sought after, Dunkin Donuts exclusive Buttermilk Donut.

If you haven't ever tried one, I suggest you head to your local Dunkin Donuts and clean them out. They look like small piles of tan mush. They fry them so deeply that their crust is nearly half an inch thick, and they're covered with enough tasty glaze to give your unborn children diabetes.

If you get them just after they make them, their inner core is a soft, moist, warm sexual experience surrounded by oodles of cakey deliciousness.

If you know me, you are not surprised that I am speaking rapturously of a Donut.

I can't find a single image of the tasty lump of sugar and fried dough on Google, but if you type 'buttermilk donut' into the search engine, you will find that a fair number of people enjoy writing about them in the fiction they post.

These donuts are a phenomenon, and due to some strange marketing quirk or cocaine addled corporate board decision, I am cut off from my supply.

I've consulted with mom, and there may be a care package on the way.

Normally, when I talk to my mom, she gives me the same exact news she gives me each week. It is often a combination of her having no money and her dog's legs are bad because the dog is getting old. I cannot communicate with my mother via any medium without hearing these two facts expressed.

This morning, though, she broke my heart. Apparently, my youngest brother Barry had his car window broken. Poor Bar actually cried because he hasn't been able to find a job and doesn't have any money to fix the window. Good God, I hate the thought of that poor kid so upset.

The thing about Bar is that, if you knew him, you'd be so surprised to hear he was that sad. He's emotionally reserved except when he's happy, and at all other times he keeps up this facade like he's too cool to even be in the same room with most people he knows.

Now I've got to find a way to send some Big Brotherly love his direction without letting him know that my mom blew his hipster cover.

You can still get to him, though, by reminding him that his childhood nickname was 'Noodles' and that he wanted to be Wonder Woman when he grew up.

Thankfully, he grew out of that last part.