Tonight I am angry at our Bitch Goddess Improv. Fuck you, Improv. Fuck you for getting in my way. Here I am happily attempting you and the whole time you're running ahead, laughing at my feeble attempts. Here I am trying to make something that looks better than shit, but it's still jerks in shirts in a line on the wall. Here I am failing and loving the failure but then really failing and not thinking it's so keen. Here I am owing $2,100 to various sources at the door right now, let alone how much I really owe in total, and how much further I'll be digging because improv pays less than all of the things less attractive, less inevitable than our Bitch Goddess. Fuck you, improv. I'm tired and hungry and not very good at spacework.