Freedom. Horrible freedom.
I’ve officially got NOTHING to do until at least September, and perhaps even for a year after that, and I’m not sure I like it. Asking me to try and live in the real world is like asking Michael Barrymore to come to your dinner party; it’s unpleasant, and somebody’s going to end up dead.
The upshot of all this AWFUL, REPULSIVE free time is that I might write things down more often, because I’m all grown up now, and that’s what they do, right?
