Expatriating Nabokov - Or Indulging The Bladder

And hereby I dive into indulgence! I guess just using the word "hereby" is pretty indulgent itself.

Speaking of indulgence, I feel the spectre of Nabokov peering down on me, brow furrowed, displeased with my journal-keeping impulse here. Has anybody read his stuff in "Speak, Memory" about keeping journals just being a way to try to save ourselves from mortality? That by chronicling the minutae of our lives, we're leaving a monument to them? What Nabokov wasn't expecting, however, is that while he's peering down on me, brow furrowed, immortality had, I totally just let my bladder go and blow some kidney-processed Mac's all over his face. This move, subtly distinguished from the golden shower, is from this moment on to be called "The Expatriate." I expatriate you, Nabokov.

Here we go on our record! We have some serious weeks of work ahead of us, but I'm feeling more optimistic about this whole thing than I have in a while. When you guys check in next week, you should expect with almost total certainty for us to be rockstars. Or at least the president. Or expatriated on.

Cary