I suppose I should update this thing.

There are two things I need to say, so here goes nothing.

The first is that I'm expecting my first child in January.

The second is that I'm growing out my hair.

That's it, really.

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Good morning, apocalypse.

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Whatever it is you think I am, I'm probably the opposite.

I'm just sayin'. At this point, even I'm confused.

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Fuck.

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I don't update this thing enough. Or maybe I don't care enough. Either way, it's been a while ( Read more... )

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I just finished it. In a sitting. (Well, with interruptions. But that's to expected on a sick day, right?) And-- I swear to God, if this isn't huge, I quit.

I haven't called. I've got another call to make first. Two calls, actually.

Oh, God.

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I can't do this for much longer.

Who am I kidding? I can't do this.

The sympathetic looks from news managers and floor managers and micromanagers. The nods across crowded corridors from people I barely maybe met once five years ago. Hey. We know you could do better. So why aren't you?And then, at the end of the day, my fucking ( Read more... )

I have the worst headache in the universe. Completely out of nowhere.

Not fair.

Also, am I the only one dreading Saturday's Fourth Estate Public Masturbation Session?

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An email from my brother.

That's what I amount to, apparently. And a random comment from Danny Concannon.

My parents are old, and the card's probably in the mail.

And I didn't expect that he'd even know. Maybe he does know. He just got in from the thing, and it would be really fucking selfish of me to swoop in and say, "Hey, ( Read more... )

Thirty-seven is quite possibly the most boring, useless number in the universe.

37, 37, 37.

Yeah, still boring.

And appropriate.