the facts would bear that interpretation

Man, it’s good to be home. Hilary was a sweetheart — a lead-footed sweetheart, the best kind — and drove me back from Kingston. We arrived in Toronto around 9:30, just in time to fall asleep in the arms of my wife. Bliss.

We chatted a little when we woke up this morning, and I was invormed that Tyla had a “bone to pick” with me. Never a good sign, but I bravely asked for more details. Apparently she’d gone to Video 99 down on Bloor to rent, of all things, The Saint, and discovered that we had nearly thirty dollars in late fees. Apparently we’ve had these fines sitting on our account since we last lived in Toronto, and have been consequently, and reasonably, considered to be rather delinquent in the interim.

“Wow,” I thought. “That does suck. I should apologize to Tyla!” But then the rest of my brain engaged. “Wait, wait, wait. Also, wait.” How, I asked, was this necessarily my fault? We both rented movies from there, and it could just as easily — ignoring, perhaps, more than the usual amount of historical analysis — have been Tyla who failed to return the movies on time. Her defense to this line of questioning was ultimately not very compelling, so my nascent guilt evaporated pretty quickly. Close call, though.

Deb got me a cool-looking book for Christmas, and it should receive appropriate attention during the flight to Edinburgh, if not sooner.

I’m not going to Portland this month. I can’t believe I even considered it.

In yesterday’s necessarily-incomplete list of the bright-yet-unemployed people in my circle of friends, I somehow forgot Ian. Ah well, we all know that I suck.

I have so much work to do today. Sweet god, would I rather be playing Halo.

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