It's Friday. 8 hours behind a desk. 4 hours mulling around as a work hoss. Late night rages (hopefully I can stay up...) that seem like a bad idea for the ensuing 6 hours as a work hoss: hocking plates and glasses, cleaning up baby "cuteness", and pretending that everything's fine, just fine dammit. Because, I suppose, everything is fine. I mean, it's not going as planned, but maybe I'm a bad writer. The producer's rewriting it, and really, what does the author have to say in the grand scheme of a picture? It's just words, people would rather watch the movie anyways.