I'm still not used to 10-hour days at work. Not only does my job... I was going to say "suck crab-infested balls," but that's too generic. I'll have to think of some other perjorative later, since my brain's fried. I decided to be a prick and skip tonight's Conan game, and even though I sent Ted an email saying I was going to do so, I'm sure everyone wants my head on a pike for flaking out. I can't blame 'em, but I'll be damned if I didn't want to come home and relax. Sorry, guys. Ich bin arschloch.

And relax I have. I ate some fish sticks ("neither a fish nor a stick, but a fungus," to paraphrase Matt Groening), drank a couple beers and a whiskey sour, and sat. I also pushed myself to finish the second draft of Critical Hits, and now that that's out of the way, I can no longer avoid the hunt for an agent. Urgh.

Now that I've offset my anti-social behavior with a bit of personal fulfillment, I'm going to stretch out on the couch and finish Harlot's Ghost. Since I've only got a hundred or so pages left, I won't feel bad if I don't read them too closely.

A final note: one of the life-changing dreams I had a while back may be slowly realizing itself.