Sorry, everyone. I have nothing to write about today. The Fawkes party went a lot later than I thought it would, and in addition to being extremely hung over and covered in severe powder burns, I'm also still in a little bit of a funk because I still haven't gotten over this whole Robert Goulet thing. My own father (in the spiritual sense), dead (in the very corporeal sense). Oh, the horror.
I've spent most of my day exercising my God-given, constitutionally sanctioned right to read and translate olde English folk tales, just like Guy Fawkes would have wanted. As soon as I find a good one, I'll share it with you. Right now I'm just finishing up the story of Grethelwald the Butcher, who murdered his brothers in a bloodlust brought on by their abduction of his most cherished sheep, and who roamed the countryside pursued by the phantom sounds of their cursed and tormented wailing, which would often wake him up in the middle of a foggy English night and urge him ever closer to the brink of madness. Next up is the tale of Lollipop the Bear, who is, according to legend, the "baddest motherfucker ever to be born with a rainbow lovingly embroidered into the fabric of his chest."