That's the title of my new ultra-depressing graphic novella that I'm going to write. It will tell how I was molested by my gay choir director repeatedly, or some such thing. When I pick the most traumatic sounding thing I could talk about nonchatlantly AND illustrate I will let you know.
My apartment went from being freezing to the point where I had to wear 2 pairs of socks and a sweater to sit on the couch and watch TV, to boiling. Now I am sitting here in a pair of short pajama pants and it's sweltering. It feels like August, so I had to guiltily open 3 windows to try and balance it all out.
I was meant to go to Tabla, Blue Smoke, and Butter for New York Restaurant Week. I went to none of the above. Now I officially hate Restaurant Week.
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