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Nah. It's the 30th. New Year's Eve Eve. The night before the night before, iffn you know what I mean. But the night before will be bad enough, I imagine. At this point, stumbling around drunkenly while trying to avoid a city full of drunken 15 year-olds in white trousers is probably as good as it's going to get. I'm thinking of a valium-based celebration, frankly. Yeesh.
I'm doing OK, I suppose. But someone calling themselves "scoober" left a message on my blog suggesting - and I quote:
Misery isn't attractive, unless you're just another pseud cunt who think life owes them a great time because you've skim-read The Fall. Cut the tortured artist shit. Grow up.
Which is interesting, given that I was, at that point, merely saying that James M Cain had written some neato stuff on criticism and writing. Eesh.
Other than that? Woo. Hoo. You get the picture. Hardly tortured artist, but not quite laughing cavalier, either.
Oh, and everyone should take this test, because it rocks. |
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Which Edward Gorey Book Are You?
