I'm going to Canada. To the fucking middle of nowhere Canada. Today. And something tells me that no, I won't get to find some incredibly hot Mountie to fuck or dress Wes up like one.

I'm not being paid enough for this. This wasn't in the god-damned contract. I don't do snow. I don't like snow. And I'm charging my new mink jacket to the company account. Fuck them all. If I end up committing a homicide, I'll enter a plea of insanity. Not like you can try a dead woman, anyways.

(Lover, after this? I suggest that we actually do something that isn't saving the world. That's not a date. Now, if you're bringing on the apocolypse...)

Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: The sound of the airport intercomm system...