The crowing of Real Time with Bill Maher continues out of my control in the living room.  I can’t stand listening to any two people argue impatiently, let alone a group of people.  I can’t seem to understand how others can see it as entertainment of gain anything useful over the bickering and pretentiousness.  But the audience still breaks into applause repeatedly, feeding Maher’s arrogance. 

After one in the morning, the house is still and the only light in the living room—the lamp to my left—is enough to read this and that.  My eyes are still mostly open and I’m tickled to death by the idea of sleeping in tomorrow. 

Dinner was pushed back to Saturday night, but I still go with Chloe to a shoot where I’m more of an accessory that chimes in with a smartass comment every now and then.  And most of the time it seems well received. 

It will only take me two pages of Kerouac or Burroughs to fall asleep if I time it correctly.