Sluggo had promised himself he would limit his time on the computer to less than an hour a day. Like many promises, this one was made with the best of intentions and an underlying need to makes himself a better person.
So why was it that now, at a quarter past midnight, he was lying abed wide awake? This was in spite of re-reading the latest Sookie Stackhouse story, drinking several glasses of red wine that Sluggo whimsically thought of as “true blood,” and neatly cataloging, in alphabetical order, all of the books on his living room shelves. He had his bedroom TV turned to a comforting and—he thought—sleep-inducing low hum, tuned to Lifetime and an old episode of Will and Grace. His aluminum mini blinds were firmly shut against the night, and the room was warm and dark, save for the dim
