Jack and I kind of bobble back and forth between financial responsibility and complete ruin. On the one hand, we're carrying a hunkin' chunk of debt; on the other, we always pay on time and above the minimum due. On the next other hand, we just got a unexpectedly ginormous tax bill; but on the one other other hand, we'd already booked and paid for a ten-day vacation this month and BY GOD WE'RE GOING TO TAKE IT.
So I'm saying Aloha for a week or so, and with any luck I'll find time for a post that prominently features brain death and resuscitation by pina colada. I'm getting every last t-shirt order out before I go, and when I seal that last envelope tonight after everyone else is asleep I'll take a moment to wonder why the fuck I signed up for National Novel Writing Month.
Oh, I remember! I got a nice e-mail from Brooke suggesting it would be just the thing, and at the time I believed she was right -- a little competition, and the knowledge that everyone else was out there sucking just as hard as I was. And now, well, I haven't written a goddamn word and I'm nine days behind. At six pages a day I need to crank out fifty-four pages by midnight just to stay in the game.
Or, you know, I can just continue to receive their witty motivational e-mails while I gear up for next year.