Happy Valentine's Day!

It's snowing hard enough that classes I wanted to go to got cancelled, a package I was excited about got diverted, I'm pissed as hell at somebody but too disgusted to want to do anything about it, my throat has been killing me for no understandable reason, and, as usual, I'm single. Plus, Valentine's day is the anniversary of one of the most embarassing moments of my life. And it's a grim February, and the wintertime depresses me so.

I don't even have any damn candy.

STILL! I'm celebrating by locking myself in my room and working on my second Machine of Death story. This one is entitled "SELF-INFLICTED GUNSHOT WOUND". And no, sirs, the gunshot actually isn't self-inflicted. Mwah-ha-ha-ha! I've hit 1700 words and I'm maybe a third done, depending on how long I want the end-game to stretch out. Where the other one is absurdist, this one hopes to make everyone realize just how unnerving destiny can be.

If you know for a fact you're going to kill yourself, why not take as many people as you can with you?