Each year (or really, every 11 months and two weeks or so, kinda), the Jews observe Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, during which leather shoes and doing it are totally forbidden. Then there are many apologies. Emily did it, Balk did it, Josh did it. Choire may or may not be a Jew. Seriously, the family is still figuring it out. Weird time for the Czechs, the 1900s.
I'm not atoning for SHIT.
All I wish for this last year gone by is that I'd done more smoking, fucking and reading of science fiction books. And I did a *lot* of two of those three. (Seriously, there's not a Winston Light or a Roger Zelazny that I haven't touched this year. And considering Zelazny, who is by far and away one of the most absolutely bestest fiction writers of our time, died of cancer at 58, that's probably not a great combination.)
Yup, that's it. I guess I'm sorry I wasn't ruder about the incredible hubris of Michael Wolff.
God, why is he such a little slumbitch?
And I wish I'd bought my soon-to-be-former coworker Balk a few more stiff drinks, but I'll get right on that amends first thing next week.