GUH

I'm exhausted. Dunno why, but I am, and enough so to give into the foolish urge to tell everyone on the internet as much. Fuck. Pathetic.

Sara cooked a tasty dinner. We watched the Simpsons. I put on my headphones, listened to Death, and edited Critical Hits. Sara went to the bar. I kept editing and drinking beer. Very quiet, except for the click of ferret nails on hardwood floors and loud metal blaring from the stereo. Now I am typing and listening to Electric Wizard's "Mountains of Mars" on repeat. It's the most relaxing thing I can do and still remain awake.

I hope I didn't leave my Lovecraft books in boxes when I moved in here. If I did, I'm gonna be pissed. Fritz Leiber ain't gonna cut it tonight come Crawl Into Bed And Pulp Out Time.

Looks like Ted's Conan game is gonna kick ass, Gullah willing.

For some reason I signed onto MySpace. Since I haven't done anything with it since joining, I think I'll quit.

I am tired. I do not want to go to work tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.

I've written enough meaningless pap here to last a week, so unless boredom or good times roll around and intervene, consider this your seven-day dose, chumps. I'm off to scrub the taste of Alzheimer's out of my mouth.