Every couple of months, I'll run across someone who for some reason needs to find out what sign I am. It pisses me off. I always refuse to answer in the hope that they will drop it (I mean, if they were really tenacious, they'd be forging their own destiny instead of letting a hack at a newspaper write it for them), but instead that seems to excite them. The worst part about the whole this is that if they find out that "my sign" is @#$%&+, they all say, "I knew it," which is, of course, a load of horseshit because if they did, they wouldn't have wasted my time and energy trying to figure the shit out in the first place.
Right now Charlie and Dre are trying to figure out my birthday, but they're just busting my balls.
My sleep schedule has completely justified itself to my day job. I'm actually sleeping better now than I did before the leave of absence, which may be more due to the fact that I'm two hard years older. This has, however, severely cut into my creative time as suitboyskin and I now have what seems to be opposite schedules.
The Film Score Monthly message board is down today. Boo hoo.