My DVR, like, sees inside my soul, and inside my soul is a 65-year-old retired woman. So there's Food Network, HGTV and 'Golden Girls' reruns. And 'Roseanne.'

My guilty pleasure is elastic-waisted pants. And reruns of shows I've already seen 400 times on TV.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I fed my ego, but not my soul.

God, if there is a God, take my soul, if I have a soul.

Have you got any soul?" a woman asks the next afternoon. That depends, I feel like saying; some days yes, some days no. A few days ago I was right out; now I've got loads, too much, more than I can handle. I wish I could spread it a bit more evenly, I want to tell her, get a better balance, but I can't seem to get it sorted. I can see she wouldn't be interested in my internal stock control problems though, so I simply point to where I keep the soul I have, right by the exit, just next to the blues.