There have been quite a few things on my mind as of late.

The first is, obviously, The Art of Clown Warfare.

A few nights ago, I was making myself a light lunch, (a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,) when my littlest brother, Luis, stumbled into the kitchen. He had been sleeping, as he usually does at 2:30 am. I asked him, "What, do you want a sandwich too?"

He told me to shut up.

I asked him if he was thirsty, and he said that he was.

"There is some apple juice in the fridge," I told him, handing him a glass.

He poured himself some, and, still bleary-eyed and stumbly, went back to his room. I abandoned my sandwich and followed him.

Luis has a queen sized bed, so I laid down along the foot of it. The boy is so small, he doesn't even take up a quarter of it. And, like me, he edges up right to the side of the bed when he sleeps.

"Get out of here, they'll here you!" Luis protested as I loudly complained that his bed was uncomfortable.

"Who'll hear me?" I asked.

"The clowns," he answered, with a tone that is usually reserved for imbeciles.

"What clowns?"

"The ones under the bed!"

"Boy, you don't have to worry about clowns," I admonished, "You just have to know how to fight them."

"What are you talking about?"

"Clowns aren't built for speed. They have big, floppy shoes that make it hard for them to run. They usually wear wigs, and you can pull them down over their eyes so that they can't see. Don't try to punch them in the nose, though. That's the most protected spot on a clown."

I leaned in closer, as if to impart a great secret.

"What you really want to do when fighting clowns is to take out one of the clown cars. See, you blow up just the one car, and you're actually taking out at least 20 clowns."

We laughed hysterically at the idea. I left him to sleep, and, still chuckling, went back to finish making my sandwich.

* * * * *

At work, we have pseudo-cubicles. The other day, I was stuck in one of the ones that I refer to as "solitary confinement." I was not sitting next to or across from anyone else.

Stuck to the wall of the cubicle, along with relevant, work-related information, is a picture of a big, bright, flower, and a smiling bee is lighting upon on it. The caption reads, "Stay Buzz-ey!"

I stared at it for a moment. Then I ripped off a piece of paper, scrawled "GO POLLINATE YOURSELF!" across it, and stuck it to the picture. I didn't take it down when my shift ended.

* * * * *

Dana likes stars, and so do I.

* * * * *

Also at work, when I wasn't in solitary, my co-worker next to me was laughing about her friends key-chain. I asked what was so funny, and she showed me. The key-chain read, "Men are all alike, they just have different faces to tell them apart."

I laughed sarcastically, and handed it back.

A minute or so later, I handed her a scrap of paper that read, "Women are all alike, they just spend all your money at different stores!"

We laughed together about it. It was all in good fun. Just the same, I didn't show her the alternate one I had, which read, "Women are all the same, some just lie better than others."

Some jokes are best kept to yourself.

Also, I didn't want her to alert the other women that I was on to them.

* * * *

Ah yes, and to elaborate on what Donovan pointed out, Kate and the girl I had cheated on her with ended up working at the same Hooters restaurant.

Now if that just ain't some deep-fried irony served with a frosty pitcher of awkward.

My friend Garrett used to work at a coffee shop that we would all hang out at that was literally two stores down from the aforementioned Hooters restaurant. It was odd, to say the least, because for a time I was still hanging out there knowing that a few yards away were two of my biggest fears: The girl I had cheated on and the girl I had cheated on her with.

My imagination had concocted elaborate fantasies in which they joined forces to exact their revenge on me, most of which concluded with certain parts of me being deep-fried in boiling cooking oil.

I was tired of torturing myself, so I squared my shoulders, marched down the concrete walk to Hooters and burst into the restaurant.

Neither of them were working that day.

I had rejoiced in my good fortune and then immediately resolved never to tempt fate by going in there again.

* * * * *

Guillermo-4, Fate-10 Jillion.

Wait, I'm not a Fatalist. I keep forgetting that.

Finally, read Neil Gaiman's Sandman, Book Four: Seasons of Mist Quite invigorating, and highlights some of the most amazing facets of perspective.

I hope you're having fun, Jaden.

We do miss you, Methinks.

"Goodnight!" he said, at 4:30 am.