When I happen to be conducting my significant and considerable business in a public space that demands I observe a pregnant woman, I am overcome with a barely-controllable urge to point in her general direction and exclaim, “she had sex!”

But then I consider that I haven’t eliminated other possible explanations for her condition. And I wouldn’t want to look foolish.

Today, somebody asked me for change. Even though I didn’t have any, that somebody gave me a hug.

This happened. For real.

Being fantastically broke is not without it’s advantages. I’m inclined to watch all the really good television everyone’s always raving about. But it would promise to get me through the day, not invite me to look forward to the next.

Last night I dreamt I had the balls to stand up to my father, a nomadic chieftain of the Central Asian steppe. He disowned me with a tear, a wave of his hand and a whistle that sounded like a soaring eagle or a falling bomb.

This evening my father and I discussed groundbreaking astronomy with alarming accuracy over beef stroganoff. I left out the part where I don’t have his rent money.

He didn’t ask about it. Dinner was good.

Thanks, former United States Secretary of Defense Clark Clifford as portrayed by Donald Sutherland, for guiding my minute and seemingly-inconsequential life decisions by erecting the framework of your historically-aware and carefully-considered foreign policy maxims around them.