What I discovered after posting that last article and leaving my room…

He won! He won! He won he won he won he won he won!!!!!!! Obama won! OBAMA SO FREAKING WON!



I DON’T HAVE TO RUN AWAY TO CANADA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Life is good.

Mmmmmm….mmm mmm mmm! (No, I’m not referring to Gillian Anderson. This time.)

I’m at work. Someone gave me a donut. I ate it.

It was the most delicious thing ever.

To answer your unspoken (or possibly spoken, as I cannot currently see you) question, no, this has nothing to do with anything. I just feel guilty for not posting for so long. I’ll try to have new info to y’all by the end of the week. Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night nor mountain high stacks of homework nor internship and summer job application deadlines nor incredibly distracting posters of Bobby Goren in all his glorious hotness shall deter me!

Trivia post? What trivia post?

No, I didn’t delete a post after realizing that it should really wait until I’d posted the interviews for the upcoming show. Whyever would I do that?

The Mugger

So if you’re anything like me–well, you’re a Chaucer-infatuated Trekkie with a bad habit of unnerving people by reading large books about serial killers and getting ‘The Gun Song’ from Assassins (which, by the way, is available as a ringtone) stuck in your head, and I pity you. But more to the point, Dean Seal’s closing comment about being mugged by a bird filled you with a deep and burning curiosity. It is for that reason that I set off on a search for the facts, a perilous quest in which…okay, I sent a follow-up e-mail. Sorry, I’ve been too busy to work on my stories recently; the drama has to seep in somewhere.

Anyhoo, thusly runs our tale: Dean Seal, being a great lover of street food (Random digression: Anybody else read that awesome New Yorker article several months back about street food in other countries? Tell me I’m not the only one who pretty much drooled all over the page) had just purchased a sausage from a street vendor in Battery Park, at the tip of Manhattan. No sooner had he taken a bite from it than a seagull dove from behind, smacked him in the head, and made off with the aforementioned sausage, bun and all. Slightly shell-shocked, our protagonist nevertheless recovered with heroic speed, purchased a replacement, and ate it hurriedly out of sight in the cover of a doorway.

Moral of the Story: Alfred Hitchcock is always right.