Okay, you know what? I’m as egotistical a bastard as they come, but apparently even my self-love has its limits. After skimming through four years of Whatevers today for the Hate Mail book, I appear to have reached that limit, since by the end of it I was rolling my eyes at my own writing and thinking, boy, you’re just one smug son of a bitch, aren’t you? Yes, that’s a pretty good sign to take a break for the rest of the evening. Hopefully I’ll look better to myself tomorrow. Or maybe Monday.