Rejoice, you poor bastards.You may be in class on a Friday,but it could be worse.

I am at a job fair for journalists.

Resumés, interviews, networking, shmoozing, neckties, slacks, and an 80-foot tall Satan shattering my spine in a vulgar sodomy attempt.

Your day will come. But today, rejoice.

Friday’s forecast: Slight chill of impending future warmed by many many shots of bourbon.