When They Get All Grown Up


I think you all know what this means.

Yep, SOULS OF THE LIVING and I are saying good-bye. One last drink together before the bruiser gets put in a box and shipped off to the fabulous land of New York City where he will land on some editor’s desk, crap all over their blotter and whine loudly for attention (some books just don’t arrive quietly, too full of piss and noise). I won’t see him again for six months to a year (or so I’m telling myself, just so that I don’t get all weird and fussy about separation anxiety). So long, old pal, constant friend…

Now get the fuck out. I want a new buddy now. And your bastard offspring, filled with all the threads you left unfinished? He can stay outside — with the cat — for a few days. Daddy needs a break.

Daddy’s going to have a drink.

Daddy is going to go with Mommy to the hospital on Friday and they’re going to have themselves a baby girl, but that’s Friday. You all will have to wait for pictures of Widget until next week.