I fear that I may soon abuse this mode of information dissemination. As there was nothing to see this night, I felt it right to go home and resign myself to the joys of the silver screen. Oh, klatu verat nicto, you saved us from destruction. I will have you all know this: I can trace my obsession with horror back to my pre-birth. For this was the only time my mother ever read King, and she read his books for the entirety of her pregnancy with me. I thank her now for this, though I acknowledge that it has in no small way impacted my view of the world as a dark, dire, and apocalyptic place. Perhaps this entry begins another part of my interaction with all of you, interaction on the subject of literature. H. P. Lovecraft, like our other dear departed Johnny Cash, is one of a few venerable men whom I would blow, but for their corpse state. I am currently entangled with H. P. Lovecraft's "Book of Horror." This tome is not another anthology of Lovecraft's work. Rather is is a selection of stories he himself put together as referents to his dark genius. It is, in the most eloquent sense, FUCKING AWESOME! Read it if you dare.
OK, enough with the flowery language; what the fuck are all of you doing for New Years Eve?