It’s 2:30 am.
Q: Do you know where your snow queen is?
A: Sitting in her kitchen surrounded by sleeping dogs, listening to The
Decemberists, and getting silly drunk on a Starbucks mug full of
cheap-ass red wine and pomegranate juice, which makes it taste slightly
less than completely vile.
Also reading Bulgakov. But this is becoming blurry as the night
progesses, and my total reading comprehension come morning will
probably be: Yay, giant kitties! C’mere, giant kitty, I’m a-gonna pet you!