After sleeping for shit, I had to make a trip to my doctor's this morning to pick up a prescription, then a trip to the pharmacy, and I'll likely get no work done today, except for making notes for The Tindalos Asset, the next novella for Tor.com, set in the Agents of Dreamland/Black Helicopters universe. I should be working on Sirenia Digest No. 137 or the ghost story (which I think will be a Civil War story), but The Tindalos Asset is occupying all my thoughts. I have a phone meeting (teleconference, do people still stay that?) with my agent and her digital rights management person at 4 p.m., to discuss releasing Black Helicopters and The Dry Salvages via Kindle. Apparently, Writers House has an arrangement with Kindle.
I just had my first bottle of Muscle Milk. Oh my god, that was nasty. Supposedly, it mimics human breast milk. But it was chocolate. Sort of. Still, forty grams of protein, eighty percent of my daily allowance in 414 ml. of liquid. Still, the name sounds like a euphemism for semen. Though, it doesn't taste that bad.
I think Theresa May's sole raison d'être is to endeavor to make Margaret Thatcher look good by comparison.
Last night, we were thoroughly disappointed by the first episode of Season Twelve of FaceOff. Where has all the talent gone?