I've been noticing lately that I don't get as excited about things as I used to. Take for example this weekend. I went to Brekenridge for the weekend with my sister and our friend Gwen and Joey and Brian; lots of very cool people. It turned out to be sort of movie plot-esque funny with the water heater going out a lot and the breaker for the heater not staying on, funny antics like that along with alcohol and good friends, but when I got home and my roommate asked me how my weekend was, I just said "It was real good". That's It. What happened to the storyteller in me? What happened to the fun Mark from years past. Who killed him?
 
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