Escaping discorporation and flaming death, against all odds, I have arrived, despite the best attempts of sentinel fleets and Russian nuclear warheads and raving demons from Sheogh.

Thank you to Joel and Jem and Johnson and Junyuan and Colin and Hanwen(I just wanted to put the 'J's together) and family, for being at the airport. Thank you, Ernest. Thank you all, for your well-wishes, and your not-so-well wishes, and your downright-evil wishes.

On the other hand, it is good to be back here. Lammermyre (his name until I think of a better one) is trying to get me to play World of Warcraft. So I arrived late last night, and immediately had it forced upon me, like a big fat really ugly German with a small penis forces himself upon a little boy, crying alone in the dark alley. Poor little boy. All he wanted was some food for his family, and medicine for his sick sister.

So, anyway, I made myself a human Warlock named Malagir. Take note of the name: it took us something like a full hour of discussion to come up with it, after discarding such worthy candidates as IPwnz0rXj00 and Nefertitties. Apparently, Malagir was a angsty, emo kid, sensitive and quiet. All his life, his greatest regret was that his family was not all gruesomely murdered in some Scourge raid, and so he had to pretend to the tragic greatness he felt he deserved. Resenting his contented, happy family for their contentment, happiness and lack of general tragedy, he turned to the dark arts, figuring that that's what sensitive poet people do. Dying his hair black and taking the name Malagir (meaning Son of Sickness, in his own made up language loosely based upon a little bit of Elvish and some Gnome), he attached himself to Jethon the mage, and now seeks to die in some terrible accident.

I really don't hate angsty people. I just like making fun of them. And of people in general.

For now, however, like the little boy being raped by the Prussian, I am hungry and must go find food. Food of happiness and delight.