Well, shit.

That's what I'm writing, and that's how I'm feeling. Shit. I know I can summarize critical definitions of city comedy in five pages or so, but I just can't get myself to do it, somehow. And I'm having one of those days when everything I look at or hear reminds me of my ex-girlfriend, who would BE HERE if we hadn't broken up. And I have to go to New Orleans, which I cannot afford, to present a paper that is further shit at a seminar that might be quite useful but will probably make me feel like the imposter I am.

It's all feeling very much like this, which is apparently (funnily enough) wombat poo:



Whew, man. Take your pills or something! It's a beautiful day, you're healthy and occasionally productive.

Okay, thank you. More later. Back to Brian fucking Gibbons.