Anyone claiming that money can't buy happiness needs to swing past my place for dinner sometime. Tonight I had teriyaki shark and a balsamic vinaigrette salad with strawberries and brie, and I am happy.

Yoga, manic-phase energy, overwork, travel, family, exercise, women, vehicle selection...all worthy topics in their own right.
Today though, I'm going to talk about phones. Specifically, I'm going to talk about how my faithful Nokia 3390 is about to have its service terminated, and my Waterloo number will no longer get you to the mellifluous sound of my voice. I know what you're thinking; How will I ever keep in touch with the hoards of swimsuit model/lawyer honeys that pester me day and night without my trusty cellular?
Fortunately for my elaborately constructed fantasy world, we'll never have to find out (the hoards and I, that is). There's a new 905 number (more accurately reflecting my current living quarters) that will connect you to my soon to be purchased Nokia 3650 no matter where my glamorous jet-setting takes me. Drop me a line at my Waterloo number before the end of the month, or at the mildly obfuscated e-mail address below after that for the other seven numbers.

Can I get a Paaaay-cheque? Paaaay-cheque!
Can I get a Freaky Girls? Freaky Girls!
Can I get an Up All Night? Up All Night!
I need to say right now, I have heartily missed have one Nick Taylor in my city. Things just get a little more interesting when that condition is met. In the last four months, I had not:
Been to a sleazy after-hours bar.
Spent enormous sums of money simply to prolong the evening.
Stayed up 'til dawn.
Met women that were freaky enough for me to actually consider calling the number they gave me.
Wondered whether what I was doing was really such a good idea.

Did I say the end of the month? Because what I really meant was the twenty-fourth. Of this month.
Yee-haw, kids. Yee. Fucking. Haw.
Begin compiling your lists of desired European goods.

Sign #57 That You've Had A Private Bathroom For Too Long: After being suitably embarrassed to pop the door to the can open while your roommate is brushing his teeth, you nonetheless do the exact same thing, at the exact same time, a week later.
Must..live...in...better apartment.

Theoretically, I should have loads of material for you, because work is basically my life right now, and work is crazy. The only problem is, I work for the CIA, or so my company would have you believe. I basically can't tell you anything about what we do, how we do it, or who does it with us. Here's my publicly available job description: I'm leaving the country at the end of the month for an undetermined length of time to do things that I can't tell you about, in an unspecified theatre of operations.
In other news, if anyone has a used sniper rifle I can borrow, let me know. ;=)
Also, to minimize time spent staring at a screen on any given day, this space may shift to an audio format soon, depending on feasibility.

Announcing the triumphant return of me to Southwestern Ontario. I know, I know, I've missed you too.