I’m not a coffee drinker. Never grew accustomed to the flavor. So my interactions with Starbucks and other coffee shops have been limited. My wife, however, introduced me to frappuccinos, which come in non-coffee varieties and, to my delight, also come in a variety of flavors not listed on the menu. Andes Mint frappuccino? Hell yeah. Those things are freaking amazing.

Day 1, Saturday. My wife of thirty years has left me—who knows why. Sure, it annoyed her that I hadn’t changed out of my bathrobe or moved off her sofa since my retirement in 2005, but is that a good reason? Tonight I went to the bar where we first met and tried again. Actually that bar was gone, so I tried one down the street that looked similar, only someone had removed all the Pac-Man games and the jukebox and substituted a virtual darts thingum and a mechanical bull. I sat down next to a fox in her early twenties who was blonde like my wife was thirty years ago and asked her if I could buy her a drink.

I’m convinced that any and everything I dream during my night’s slumber serves no real purpose other than to leave me bitter in the morning. Now, I’m certain most folks love to dream, and enjoy traveling to distant lands and connecting with old friends and passed on loved ones and etc., etc., but to me,

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Bad joke time! I apologize for nothing!

I learned something new while working on this strip. I looked up “virgin eggs” to see if the term really existed, and was horrified by the answer.

Once, you dedicated your life to Love and Art. Lately, you’ve downsized it to Sex and Craft.

Think about the time those callous sophisticates at Wheat rejected the finest poems from your Stoned Surrealism period, including the immortal “Cabbage of Desire” and “10 Fingers of Hand.” When you’re done with that, dwell on the fact that being morose is not a salable skill.