Someday I'll write a story that will have a person in there who is a control freak, and is slowly going crazy because they can't control the weather. Or maybe they should just have a strange form of claustrophobia, and can't stand the clouds.

Okay. I just got a Sitemeter report in my inbox, and it said that for the past two weeks a grand total of zero (0) people have visited my blog. I know I'm awfully inconsistant, and never write regularly, and I'm random and weird about what I write. But if it's really that bad, or if it's half way decent, or even 2% worth saving, tell me so in brilliant wording by clicking on the comments option below this post. Thank you for your time. Have a jolly day.

I was just turning out the light when the thought struck me - of trying to sleep without the belief that there is a God.How dark the night would be, and how barren. How empty would the life of thought be without the security of the knowledge of a supreme Presence. Letting yourself drift to sleep, to unknown, unconscious darkness, and not having the assurance that your soul is being held safe in the Hand of the Eternal God. Not believing that His eyes, speaking a heart of unspeakable compassion, gaze at you and hold and protect you through the hours of Night, and then bring to light the dawn, and open your own eyes to another day, another eternal hour, another love affair with Him. How indeed dark would be the night without God.

"I love how coffee has such an aura here. Here you don't just drink a latte, you experience your espresso. It's become an art. But really, people all over the world love coffee, drink coffee, grow coffee." She laughed. "Yeah, but I think some day God's going to look down and say 'What are you people doing? That was supposed to be a wood stain!'"

Do you ever suddenly get the impression that you've just said something very witty and clever, but can't quite think of what it was?

I think the phrase "Don't cut yourself" should be banned. Whenever someone says it to me, sure as anything, I nearly amputate a finger.

"Do you think I could get a hot chocolate?" he asked, his eyes bright with a childhood memory. "Of course you can. Want it made with milk or water?" "Milk, definately." I mixed it up, and topped it with an impressive swoop of whipped cream. He gaped. "That's it? That's my hot chocolate?" He took a gulp, and sighed as if he'd just tasted a fifty dollar, gourmet dessert. "Boy, Charisa, you're sure gonna make your kids happy, when they wake up for Saturday morning cartoons and find this waiting for them!" It was the best compliment I'd had in a long time.