Tony Soprano's In a Coma, I Know it's Serious

A moleskine was purchased for me by The Katie on my sojourn to the left coast. So I'm trying to regularly note the flyaway thoughts in my head. Hah. What has happened of note since we've been apart? We, being you, the largely mythical readers, and myself, I guess. I don't know. I'm babbling.

Here's what I thought about (besides the headline to this post. Thank you for your kind attention.):

Breakfast the other day was an antihistimine mimosa.
-Which I kept trying to call an antihistimine mojito. Which isn't as breakfasty, but an equally enjoyable name. Say it to yourself. Mojito. Out loud. Do it!
-My head feels weird and phlegmy. Thank you phlegm for being such a pleasant word to look at and an unpleasant thing to... uh, look at... Gross.

If there were any comedic justice in the world, David Robinson would've been forced to serve on a submarine.
-These are the things I think of in the shower. What the hell did I write that down for? Where am I going with these thoughts?

I wish to name my fantasy team the British Interregnum.
-Or Oliver Cromwell and the Interregnums. That'd be a good band name. Watch for that as a recurring feature. Or Fantasy team names as a recurring feature.

I can't really get into The Sopranos, because it seems like such an investment. But I could Netflix the old stuff, and watch it at work, and I think that would be okay.
-But the "coma" thing's been rattling around my brain like a colorful metaphor I can't think of right now, so there it is.

There. The end. I don't have anything else to write right now.

This is the Jump.