n.o.c. is driving; I am not.
Though I feel slightly nauseated after drinking a vat of diet coke, I am pleased to have resisted the chicken tenders, which are never a good idea.
Snorri does not seem to miss his testicles. He wears the cone of shame in a weary, resigned sort of way, but he still cuddles and snores and plays cutely with all manner of battable objects. My conscience is unassuaged, but I feel slightly less monstrous.
It snowed on Saturday.