Damn.

Just 19 days till my cushy job bursts like an overloved water balloon. And then what? What?! I'm screwed. Unemployment? Hawking books? Scanning your groceries? The dreaded secretarial work? The even more dreaded food service?

As always, the weekend proved exponentially busier than I could have foreseen. Where was my streak of writing? Sending stuff out to magazines? Making my crappy paintings? Shopping at a used bookstore? Going to visit the Elder Gods (that's my new name for you older Bil/Martin/Morgan people. Kenny gets in too, and Karl)? Baking lasagna? Visiting coffee shops? Raising/running from/destroying the undead?

Damn!

We did try to go ice skating, as I've never been before, but when we got there I noticed a preponderance of prepubescent girls in pink miniskirts and leotards tearing up the ice with a disturbing amount of skill. I would have run if it weren't for Sarah, who asked what the hell was going on and determined it was figure skating practice. We retreated with a vow to return for vengeance, with Amish in tow. Can you imagine Amish on ice skates? It's hard enough to imagine me. But Amish? Damn.

Now imagine him on ice skates and naked.

Okay, I'm sorry.