My love for film has always been a first-class measure of my spontaneity. I fall victim to that romantic idea that a person might up and move to Sydney with a paraplegic cigarette smoking sass-mouth friend, or leave a husband and/or a trailer behind to become the nations most talked about backwoods "my daddy always said" unlicensed radio therapist. There is magic in the idea that your life is cut and print straight to film and plot points, comedic timing, unnecessary sex scenes, and wacky cliché scenarios are all we have before the credits role. It doesn't always make for the most apt or "logical" decision making progression, but if I had left out spontaneity would I have up and moved my life back to Austin, Texas without a word all because of a golden haired whore house Madam by the name of Miss Mona A.K.A. "Dolly Parton"? The answer is no, I would have not. It's just a little bitty piss-ant country place, but without it I'd have no chance at convincing myself that the world is round, Halloween town exists, Muriel is getting married, Audrey has Breakfast at Tiffany's, Tom can't handle the truth, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, or that Lindsay Lohan is a stripper.