An old man was shuffling down a small Chicago alley. 

Carrying something that looked like a bottle, he made his way to a large but decrepit-looking apartment complex.  From the look of him, one might have guessed that he was a vagrant. This was not the case. 

As he drunkenly ascended the stairs towards the third floor of the building where his apartment was located, he tripped several times. He fumbled with his keys as he attempted to enter his living quarters. He took the cap off of his half-empty bottle of spirits to take a swig. His roommate had obviously been in to do some laundry, as the clothes drier was running. He was too befuddled to notice this. He set his bottle on the shaking appliance and shortly passed out upon the worn-looking couch. 

There was a crack as the glass bottle broke on the floor.

The flammable liquid touched bare wires, there was a spark, and flame spread across the floor.

The resulting fire killed seventeen.

I am sitting in a library trying to concentrate on something that does not interest me.
This thing is blogging, and my feelings about it have not changed. I wish I were not
doing this. If I were doing most anything else, I would be more content. I have little
to blog about. This may be the reason for my displeasure at having to do so.

Thank you,

Good night.

Writing.

I am not enthusiastic about blogging. Hopefully I will feel differently after a while.

Ideally this will be a blog of both assignments and personal thoughts, in equal amounts. 

Given the definitions in the Writing Syllabus, I would not classify myself as a Diarist. 

Girls keep diaries, men keep journals. As the word Journalist already has a definition 

that does not match my interests, I would say that I am somewhere between Writer and 

Artist. I do not want to write for a living, or necessarily for money at all, but I would like 

to write a novel or two and publish them.

Thank you,

Good night.

Pebbles is not a nickname, I swear...

I wish I were able to think of more clever names on the spot.