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I am playing hooky from work.

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Yay for me!

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I am writing, writing, writing. Scribbling away. Wearing my fingertips down to nubs.

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I am a dark-hearted thing. A rough beast.

There is yet good in me.

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I have written all the day long. Now I am going to drink vodka, start a fire (in the fireplace), reheat the Morrocan chicken pot pie I made last night, make a salad of mixed baby greens, red onion, and beets, and await the return of my wife.

I feel good.

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