Story of my life, really

Week Five’s plan, in case you’re wondering, is mastering that whole Getting Out of the House thang. Which really means I’ve gotta finish that Bastille Day post about Le Chef Pierre and Le Frolic, because I’ve been too guilt-wracked over not getting it done to actually show up there since. And apparently he is as big an Armagnac aficionado as I am, so this could get expensive.

By the way, The Frolic is also the title of a really seriously creepy story by John Ligotti, one of the most underappreciated authors in the English language. And now, apparently, also an independent film. Which has nothing to do with anything, but is a fact. Or series of facts. So.

Anyway, it’s a fact that I can’t stay here another weekend listening to the rad patio party the people up the hill have every Friday and Saturday without going fucking insane. I realized in Week Two that it was entirely possible to piss your life away going to work, coming home, and doing nothing else but eating, sleeping, and reading Google+. That, however, is not the life I left Vancouver to find.