A recent revelation:

If a girl ever says to you, "Is that for me?" the correct answer is always -- and I mean always -- "It could be for you."

How long d'ya think before I give it up?

Unfortnately for me, I need to do some more testing before I can say this with any certainty, but I do believe that "Pump It" by the Black Eyed Peas temporarily relieves the symptoms associated with a hangover.

I assure you, I am not going through a high-contrast period.

Fat chance of that happening, right?

Late night TV is all about infidelity.

Consider this list of offenders:

• Jerry Springer

• Cheaters
• Sam Malone from Cheers
  ('Dan from Night Court' in some markets)

The commercials are even more explicit. I saw one of them that actually implied that their service can hook you up with woman who are dissatisfied with the kind of attention they're getting from their boyfriends.

All of this has me wondering: Are the only people watching TV late at night demographically pre-disposed to lechery? Or is it something that's hardwired into all of us, but that we only admit to between the hours of 1:00 and 3:00 AM?

Looking at it like this, lit up on my phosphorous screen, it all seems so easy. So ridiculously easy. All of it just coming out of my fingertips like flames from a dragon's mouth. All I have to do is will these words into existence. Leaning back in my rejected office chair (the one that came from the dumpster already stained) I'm totally oblivious to anything but the words that you're seeing now. I have to be in a dangerous place to bring them to you. To send you this email from my consciousness. After all, at this moment, I'm nothing more than a thought in my own brain. All of myself is a shining bright ball ponging around inside my skull. I should be careful not to divert too much brainpower to this or it might take away permanently from doing thinks like breathing. This letter is cut from the very core of me, and in here it's a strange sort of place, all neon and dazzling, all City in the Clouds with disco ball lightning. A sci-fi cityscape where the people zip around in identically stylish black pods. Because here (and we, I should say, are only standing at the offramp) a thought is a hyperlinked mountain of rising and falling connections. Each word bound to the others around it by an invisible but intricately-woven cashmere sweater. One of those bright, fluffy ones from those old 1950s ads. The ones that had just enough sex appeal then to still look naughty 55 years later.

Timetravel with me now. Don't question where this is going. Just take my hand before it goes ethereal, and follow me inside. In here it's a strobe-light tunnel of shimmering colors. Bright lines streaking past the windshield of our futures, bending around us at lightspeed and burning in to the LCDs in our retina.

In here, in this intergalactic tunnel of love, time and space have no meaning. At least, not enough in the conventional sense to be perceptible to humans. Or whatever it is that we are calling one another these days. You see, to get my mind to the point where it's smashing off bits of consciousness, I have to really go after it. And if I'm going to go after something, I've got to believe in what I'm doing.