Sometimes I wish the internet never was invented. Too much like having your favorite bar in house, with your favorite barkeep who knows all your favorite drinks and plays all your favorite music, but nobody talks to you, and you're hanging around the big boys like a fourteen year old not quite realizing the dangers of the game. It's all about the cake and what you want with it.

That said, I'm still out of a job, the sockbooze is still not quite passable as vodka, and hey, it's 2 a.m. on a Sunday*. What better to do than write *another* novel?

* which means it's Monday. this whole a.m./p.m. thing just isn't workable for mainlanders, dude.


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