It is now, officially-speaking, X-Mas. I am celebrating with a can of Coke and a cigarette; the girlfriend and puppies are celebrating by sleeping, and they are doing so, by the looks of things, soundly. I gave my employers a three-month window to replace me, a window that will be shutting come January 5th, a window through which they’ll be watching me ride off into a sunset of complete and utter joblessness. With equal parts ignorance and bravado, I’m going to try writing...for money. I have no prospects, no connections, no clue...but I do have a novel I’m working on called, "I Will Kill and Eat Chaos", and I’m ready to join the galaxy of frustrated novelists who believe that the world owes them something, that through a combination of sheer talent and breathtaking originality money will start overcrowding their mailbox like maggots on a kitty-cat-carcass, that if the book tanks it will be because those reading it lack "vision" and certainly not because it sucks. So, if you happen to be in the publishing business, in any capacity, beware that knocking on your door...it’s me, and I’m ready for you fuckers. You’d better be ready for me.