Perhaps, it is, after all, a bad sign

Things are crazy here in the house that Jen built. There is much writing (though only of the they-pay-me-for-this kind), and much ... I-don't-know-what-ing, but it's keeping me f-ing busy. So busy and so unsettled, perhaps, that I cried profusely at the bittersweet ending of Angel. I just kept repeating, "But you can't kill him. He's my favorite." Apparently, this holds no sway with the writers. Bastards.