Here's the skinny: I'm a loser. There's no way around it. I live with my parents and have not had a job for a month. My mom knows it. My dad knows it. My brother knows it. (I don't think my sister cares one way or the other, it isn't her field of interest.) But I'm cool, because I won't always be a loser. All I need is a plan, and not even a good one. My mantra, that one phrase by which I sustain myself, is from Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination, "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

Apparently, Friday was religious weirdo day here in the GB. Both the Jehovah's Witnesses and the Mormons came by the house, trying to sell salvation. I'm Roman Catholic, kids, I've got all the religious weirdness I can handle, thanks. I feel bad for the Mormons, though, because for the two years of a Mormon's mission, he is not allowed to use his first name; he is referred to as Elder. For instance, Daddy Dylweed was Elder Haney. I, were I to join that odd little cult, would be Elder Wilson. Hey, jackasses, a person's first name was archaically called their Christian name. How does it serve Christ to take away a boy's Christian name for two years? Still, one of the Jehovah's Witnesses was a really hot blonde girl. I hate hot religious girls, because you can look all you want, but you can't touch unless you marry one, and that's way too high a price to pay. Don't be drawn in by her hotness, it's a trick!

I hung out with the Mountain last night. By Jove, I miss that little punk!