Currently, here in Hell, it sunny and 20˚F, but supposedly it feels like 34˚F. I'm not at all sure I buy that. In the comments to yesterday's entry,
sirena73 wrote: I've lived in California my whole life, save for about a year and a half in Illinois. I vividly remember how I felt that winter; my eyes felt starved for color, my brain numb from lack of it. Desolation is a good word for it.---
Yesterday, I did a paltry 627 words on Cherry Bomb, though I do hope to do much better today. These low-word count days have to fucking stop. I need to be doing a minimum of 1,100 words a day. I need this novel over and done with, and not only because my publisher is probably going to send a motherfucking hit walrus after my sorry ass (goo goo g'joob). I have to move on. Even aging, high-functionaing autistical*, opiate-addicted shut-ins with ruined teeth need some fleeting sense of accomplishment. Or at least fucking relief. I will reach THE END, type THE END, and put the "SplatterRom" fiasco behind me. I'm trying to make at least as enjoyable novel out of this book as I managed with Blood Oranges and Pink Delicious, but, you know how it goes: no guarantees.
Not much else to tell: A marathon RP in The Secret World that went on until almost 10 p.m., then a late dinner of spaghetti, then more Olympics, then the most recent episode of The Walking Dead, then bed. Oh, the new Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology arrived yesterday. That was the highpoint, I suppose.
Red Bull. Then work.
Stale Hell.
Judgement Made Can Never Bend,
Aunt Beast
* Well, now...see? That wasn't so hard to say, was it?