The rage has subsided and I no longer want to go on an angst-filled rampage through the Sam Goodys of the world. I am tired, though, which I blame partly on all the delicious beer I drank while out with some of my favorite U of M MFA hotties and partly on Ethan's decision to get up at 4 am and be neurotic. "We can't eat popcorn for dinner anymore, sweetie," he said, his voice filled with the kind of conviction one only hears in those old Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland "We'll save the orphanage! We'll put on a show, by golly!" movies. "We can't do that, we have to have more vegetables, we have to be healthy, and I have to do my research for the draft!" In the middle of the night while I'm trying to see how my nightmare about killing someone and escaping to the Andes turns out. I still don't know.
Also, my gang name is Snowflake. Ethan's is First Person Shooter.
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