Ever since Jen had purchased the dancewriter™,

Ever since Jen had purchased the dancewriter™, her writer's block and extra pounds were a thing of the past. Today she'd tap danced an essay on Exercise Software for New Yorker

, which was no walk in the park. Tap was not her style, and the tone of the writing she found alarming. Jen was more of a Fox Trot. It was a better pace for the profiles she'd been

analysing on Cupid.com. Would the guy into the Fandango turn out to be a serial killer? Only one way to find out. "Meet me under the clock at Waterloo Station," Jen wrote. "Wear a

e potato chip bags that I sewed into a pant suit. Jen stomped out her fat cigar and bellied up to the Fandango Man and said, "Look, there's been a lot of high grade bullroar

Ing at the old house tonight." There was a crash at Golf and Algonquin, she was right. A few snow flurries passed through, then drizzle. It was a grey day, as dad always put it.

It was a grey day, for sure, but it was about to get greyer. At dusk the lights of the city conspired with the clouds to give it all a hellish gray cast on everything: sinner or ri

ghteous alike. "ohhhh well." moaned Eeyore. "I guess I'll just Sit and Wait for Friendship That Never Comes." And that was The Very Grayest it Got indeed. And no colorful balloons

nor red roses could ever reflect his true feelings for Pooh. No sir. Eeyore was content with just closing his eyes as Pooh's husky voice met his long droopy ears. "Oh Bother." Pooh

whispered almost inaudibly into Eeyore's long ears. He closed his eyes, leaned against the yellow bear's soft body, and drifted off into a deep sleep with Pooh following after.