Bridget Callahan is Your Best Friend

Yesterday I roasted a duck, and it came out, in Sean's words, "as the best thing I've ever made him".

I don't really like duck, but this was okay. It was way less greasy than I had been led to believe by several duck appetizers at several bars.

Congratulations Michael Symon. You're totally awesome, and we all know you would have won your first Kitchen Stadium battle if it weren't for Murimoto's stain glass window. Now I will not be able to eat at Lolita's for at least a year.

Also, today is my third day without a headache, and it is totally rocking. Except that as soon as I get happy and feel good, everyone else in Cleveland decides to fold to the impending winter blues. And Norman Mailer dies of renal failure. Which seems pretty poetic to me, but seems to make everyone else sad. Norman Mailer said in 1991 that fifty years from now the novel would go the way of poetry and cease to be relevant. Because of course he failed as a novelist. Well, its 16 years later, and I haven't even FINSHED my first novel, so he can fuck off. Fuck you Norman Mailer. Not because of your nine wives or twenty three children or feminism or whatnot, but just because. Just fuck off because.

And while we're at it, Fuck You Sue Grafton. Stop sending me fake nanowrimo "pep" letters. Fuck you Tom Robbins for using your stilted and cliche prose to try and be the "cool" teacher.
Fuck all y'all motherfuckers.

Yeah! No Headache Bridget is So Much More Fun.