Filthy fucking weather out there. The sun did not rise this morning. I lay on the chaise in the middle parlour and watched the sky turn a lighter shade of lead. Currently, 48˚F.
Yesterday, I don't know. I worked until one ayem proofreading and attending to other details on Black Helicopters and the Big Manuscript that it accompanies. Then, no sleep. Up at five, when I made that last entry. Then work on an introduction. Then another failed attempt at sleep. I finally surrendered at about seven ayem and worked another four hours on the mss. until Spooky woke about eleven. Numbers, numbers, numbers; blah, blah, blah.
If we're lucky, there's no more than six or seven more hours work remaining on these things, and then I can make them go away.
I'm ill. I'm pretty much delirious. And I have to focus and think clearly.
Red Pen Strokes,
Aunt Beast
- Current Mood:
raw - Current Music:How To Destroy Angels, "Ice Age"
Comments
Or the Mayan apocolypse. ^_~
We're having a miniature ice storm. I appreciate this aesthetically in that it allowed me to look at rowan berries encased in ice as I walked home half an hour ago, but I'd rather not have been out in the damp and freeze in the first place.
Want a second pair of eyes on Black Helicopters?
This is very tantalizing! Can't wait to hear the identity of this collection that "Black Helicopters" is accompanying!
Edited at 2012-12-18 04:02 am (UTC)
Sounds like overwork/worry/stress getting on your last nerve.
And refusing to go away and let you rest.
There are all the folk remedy things: hot milk, warm bath, no caffeine after 3, and so on.
Sometimes they help, sometimes not.
Hope it is going better tonight.