Things goodish.

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.