Dead as a doornail.

the work day, that is, not me. Though navigating OC Transpo tonight was all kinds of fun (hint: it ended in a taxi). So now, home, caught up on what little flist activity there was since 4:30 this afternoon, unburied from the 100+ emails (crap on a cracker, these people can’t email me while I’m working?) that have collected since leaving the office, and about 30 seconds from ordering pizza. Because sweet mother of fuck, I don’t feel like cooking tonight. Even if my definition of cooking is the microwave.


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