I'd just like to point out that this blog post is being written under less than ideal circumstances. All I can think of doing is ripping out the back of my sand marinated throat. It feels like someone is using my throat instead of marshmellows for their smores. And instead of charcoals to roast my throat they're using lit jet fuel. It's moments like these that I wonder what my heart was ever complaining about. "Oooo, poor little heart feels alone and isolated. Poor baby. what some friend decided that their mom and pop business was more important than you, Boo hoo hooo. Buck up, Heart. At least you don't feel like you were a certain kind of intimate with the dude from Hell Raiser. At least when you ache you can go to the bar and have a drink. Try drinking anything when it feels like hot tar as just been applied to you. "