Giordana quit her job on Wednesday in prepration for her (indefinite) move to Italy. She seems so happy and relaxed now that she has quit her job that it gave me an idea: Why don't I start taking vicodin every morning before work?

No, wait, I got that idea about six weeks ago, and let me just say that it has done wonders for my productivity. But even though spending the work day in a narcotic haze has a certain allure, I have to admit that I'm sorely tempted to quit my job, if only because my unemployed friends seem to enjoy the nonworking life so much.

I like my job, of course, or at least I like it a lot more than most of the other jobs for which I am qualified (roofer, dishwasher, law school student). But I don't like my job nearly as much as I like wearing the same t-shirt for seven days straight while I attempt to set a world record for number of SportsCenters watched in a calendar week.

I'm just kidding. I wouldn't really do that. I would write all the time, of course. I would move to a little house in Northeastern Alabama with a brokedown porch, and I'd sit on my porch and write in my iBook and feel the tension of Southern modernity all around me, which would be reflected brilliantly in my novels, which would sell like hotcakes and get short-listed for awards. I know what you're wondering. You're wondering how I can even fantasize about having that kind of writing life when I clearly just sandwiched two "which" clasuses into one sentence.

Touche, mon grammatical ami. Too. Shay.