I learned something tonight. Possums don't especially like being photographed. There was another one in the yard earlier, smaller this time, but no less angry at the sight of me. I was armed with a digital camera this time, though, and I got a couple of pictures. These pictures prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that "playing possum" isn't pretending to be dead. "Playing possum" shall now be defined as looking like Bruce Lee in the climactic battle of Enter the Dragon: supremely pissed and coiled like a spring, ready to strike screaming and tear asunder anything that comes near.

Not a whole lot else going on here. I'm waiting for a CD I ordered to come in at Barnes and Noble before I quit, so I can get my discount. I'll try one last time to get a book floor job back, but if not, I'll be leaving.

It would be nice to find something without customer interaction. If I had to, though, Wendy's restaurant has an opening for someone to portray Wendy herself. If they'd settle for a surly, hairy legged Wendy with a deep voice who refuses to eat the burgers, I can oblige them. Just don't go lifting the trademark skirt, kids. You won't like it.

I have plans in the interim, though. This weekend I'm going to be driving a van full of college students to an as-yet-undecided location. Maybe Colorado, maybe Boston, maybe Dallas. I have no idea. That's the fun of it, you see. It's a semi-spontaneous road trip. This will provide a wealth of blogfodder if I make it back.