The future.

In one day, Monica returns my pen. Which she's been hoarding. The bitch.

In a week, Amber arrives. Squee.

In ten days, school starts. Lesser squee.

In a few months, I get auctioned off. Or told I'm not worth being auctioned.

In nine months, I graduate. Ideally.

In a year, I start a new life. I plan on devoting the summer to procrastinating.

In ten years, I'll have a career. Even if the career remains 'layabout'.

In twenty years, I'll be married. I will purchase a bride if it's getting down to the line.

In fifty years, I'll join the Resistance movement to destroy the Thk'Ninnian overlords.

In ten thousand years I'll probably be dead.

But all that... that's the future. That's not the present, unless we're talking philosophically or using some crappy, causality-eschewing branch of the sciences. No... forget the future. Fuck the future! Tonight... tonight is Snakes on a Plane!

There is a plane. There are SNAKES on it. Samuel L. Jackson is involved somehow. So is Keenan. Did I mention that there is a plane full of snakes?

Let's do this thing, motherfuckers.