(no subject)

I feel like such a boring human being lately, and then I remember I can post stuff like "Hi guys! This morning I superglued the gash on my finger shut, and because I'm not a patient man I then glued the bandaid to my finger."

I do these things so you don't have to. It's a labour of love.

I left my printed-out copy of Nameless at home today, which was probably a subconscious slip. I know that I have to read through it in hardcopy because I'm catching stylistic issues on almost every page, but it's harder for me to read it printed for some reason. Also I've read it a million times already. Also I know that once I get done marking it up in green ink I have to go in and make all those little tweaks.

But! The tedium of final edits and the dreariness of the weather cannot defeat me, for lo, New Guy is leaving after tomorrow and guess who we got back as a temp for New Guy's three month leave? COWORKER J. If I were him I would totally be pissed at how the company appears to be toying with him, but honestly, they're not -- they really need him and just keep getting screwed by the union.

I still have to give him back his copy of Travels with Charley and get my copy of Devil In The White City from him.

And I worked on my Big Bang fic today, which pleased me. I keep thinking I have plenty of time in which to hack out 20,000 words, but the truth is that 20,000 is the minimum and I will probably go over. So it's kind of important to get the bedrock laid now, because once I work my way through the early stuff I can really zoom along.

Very Specific Horoscopes

Cardiff. City of one thousand, three hundred, and twenty-two secrets. I've counted them. A city of sex and power. A city where it's always raining. And then...he showed up.

I should have shot him the moment he walked into our secret base. A tiny swaggering man, who stole our fairy cakes and held our beagle hostage. Why didn't I shoot him? What strangely engaging spell did he cast over us?

I'm thinking of writing my memoirs. With a noir twist, naturally (Memnoirs!). I think it would be a hit. I have a lot of memories (I think I still have most of the ones I should have) and I'm only twenty-five. If I live to see thirty it'll probably run to volumes. I could change the names, and things like giant rampaging demons intent on feeding on the life-forces of Cardiff could be mysterious women in slinky dresses* instead. If you're Jack, the peril's about the same.

* Or mysterious men in slinky dresses.

Horoscope today said to watch for falling pianos. I've decided to stay in the Hub. Not that I usually subscribe to horoscopes, or that I'm secure against falling pianos in the Hub, but that's a pretty specific prediction and in the Hub the statistical likelihood of a Steinway getting dropped on me does go down. So I've stayed in, and kept busy preventing Captain John "PAY ATTENTION TO ME" Hart from causing another apocalypse. Inbetween times, I'm reading a book of Oscar Wilde's advice columns. Smart man, that Wilde.

I know I seem to be dwelling on mortifying ways to die, but death by piano would potentially be even less cool than "shot in a bathtub". I mean, Jean Paul Marat died in a bathtub, at least. No famous hero or philosopher has ever died of piano. If they had, they'd be famous for it, like Catherine the Great and her horse (Note: Not True).

(no subject)

So this past weekend I made crumpets. And the crumpet recipe makes a lot of crumpets, so I stashed the spares in the fridge. My dinner process tonight went as follows:

1. Remove crumpets from fridge and CAREFULLY cut in half.
2. Place in toaster.
3. Go to fridge for butter.
4. Become distracted by orange juice.
5. Go back into living room with glass of orange juice.
6. Wonder why the toaster hasn't dinged, half an hour later.
7. Get up to find that I have not turned the toaster on.
8. Get distracted by phone alarm telling me it's almost time for NCIS.
9. Get distracted by Barack Obama, who has pre-empted NCIS.
10. Wonder why I'm hungry.
11. Discover untoasted crumpets in the toaster oven.

ALL I WANT ARE SOME HOT CRUMPETS. WHY IS MY OWN BRAIN DEFEATING ME.

(no subject)

Okay, one: have I mentioned my freaky acidic skin? I used to corrode silver, and mosquitos never bite me. This is relevant to the observation that in the space of less than twenty-four hours I melted the superglue off my hand.

Two: I just cut myself with the scissors I was using to trim the bandage I was going to put on my finger.

OKAY WORLD I GET IT YOU ARE SENDING ME SOME KIND OF SIGN.

NOW PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO SO I CAN STOP BLEEDING.