I can never think of anything on my own…

This is what happens when I'm all alone at 1:30am on a Saturday night (er, Sunday morning) and I fuse the idea of writing pseudoautobiographical vignettes (an idea which I am shamelessly stealing from f(r)ictions") with a random Xanga entry:

He stepped out of the cab with his freshly shaved head and newly grown goatee. The eyes of a drunk across the street lit up, and she dragged her equally drunk date along with her. She gaped and pointed: "Fast and Furious! Fast and Furious!" It took a while for it to register that she was alluding to a Vin Diesel movie. Great….

"Hey, have you ever killed anyone?" she asked, and, after hesitating a beat, and thinking about his last 36 hours all but locked up in the ICU, like a sadomasochistic farmer tending to the glistening tubes, the massive, hulking ventilators, and the glimmering, beeping monitors, he answered rather seriously, "Not on purpose."

Eek. That sucked. Like Celine, I seem to be unable to not write about work. I think I should just go to sleep. Damn it.