Please. Someone Shoot Me.

ARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!

Dadburn, stinking, unreliable %(#*%&#)_(*%^ Ohio utilities companies. Somehow today, in the aftermath of the ice storm, not only did I lose my almost completed Shequanti book three BUT my flash drive fried.

It FRIED!

WAAAAAAA! Oh my freaking god, are you kidding me? I'm on DEADLINE and I lose the whole freaking book? What in the hell is going on around here? Have the gremlins invaded my study? Is God ranged against me? Should I go to confession and take communion? That would be an interesting afternoon.

"Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been fourteen years since my last confession."

Yeah, that'll go over well. So will my profession, my divorce and remarriage, my views on abortion and women's rights, and my disdain for the Catholic society that drove my mother to fanaticism.

To continue with the confession...

"I don't know exactly why God is pissed at me, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with the erotica."

Uh huh. Better find a priest who doesn't know me for that one.

"Oh, and by the way--I was sad when Pope John Paul II died, but I dislike Benedict immensely."

Great. I see numerous Rosaries in my future--like thirty of them -- and that still won't bring back the story.

If you see me hanging around for the next two days, do yourself a favor. Don't talk to me. I'm pulling an all-nighter to get this darn story rewritten and submitted. It'll be completed by Friday if I have to channel John Holmes to get it done. And that's a promise.

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