I’m going weasel-hunting. Because my friend who happens to be an awesome writer seems to have an inner weasel the size of a freight train, and till she gets past it, I probably won’t get any more good (evil) writing out of her. (are you reading? You know who you are!)
Heh, I even sent her my couple of blogs on goin’ round the weasel. Didn’t work. Bastard’s persistent.
Need my shotgun. And my orange vest, hat, pants, shoes, shoelaces, hair barrettes–hey, I remember what it’s like, going in the woods during hunting season. Fluorescent earrings, face-paint, big sign to point out shooting humans is murder, not hunting…
Lucky inner weasels are always in season.