Rhode Island is running out of salt to salt the roads. Apparently, this winter has caused a nationwide salt shortage. Our drive looks like a glacier. Our street looks like Arctic pack ice. It's warm in Miami. If you're there, think of me.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,103 words on Chapter Five of Cherry Bomb, the first day since the first week of December that I've managed to break the 1,100 mark on the book's daily word count. That's how fucked up things have been. And I need to write an actual entry about how and why things are fucked up, and about the consequences, but I don't have time. Because everything's fucked up.
Last night, Spooky and I played The Secret World. No rp, just gaming. I fucking hate gaming. Seriously. I finished Patricia Bosworth's biography of Diane Arbus, as heartbreaking a book as I've ever read. I began it back in December. But it's the first book I've finished in...okay, I don't want to think about how many months. I began reading Ted Morgan's biography of William S. Burroughs.
You tell 'em, Patsy.