I hate American reporters. And American pisswater beer.
I feel as though I have to write a defense of myself now, because that Skeeter bitch seems to think that wanting to settle down a bit is tantamount to wanting a slave woman. Which I don't, for the record.
If anyone's bloody curious, my girlfriend dumped me, for reasons I'd like to be my own damned business. And on top of that, last night I dreamt as though I voluntarily became some kind of monk. Or at least signed up to be a novice before taking vows to be a monk. I wonder if the dreams aren't telling me what to do.