Jim Shimkus has destroyed my life. You may not know who he is, but rest assured, he has, truly, destroyed my life. This whole frelling Morrowind thing is his fault. Peer pressure, man, I'm telling you. Last night, at one a.m. I started playing that stupid game and at 5:20 frelling a.m. in the morning I realize that I've been playing for more than four hours. Spooky had long since fallen asleep on the sofa. I just barely managed to get into bed and asleep before the sun came up. Stupid game. I hate you. And it's all Jim Shimkus' fault. If you see him, kick him in the mivonks for me.

It's not that my opinion of Morrowind has changed. The animation and character design are ass. I stand by that original impression. But...it....has...sucked...me...in. It's...addictive. No, I mean seriously addictive. Like Skittles or Krispy Kreme doughnuts addictive. I mean, how can I stop playing now? I'm seventh level! I'm moving up in the world! There is so much of my life I can give to Morrowind, so much time I can waste scampering about CGI wastelands, hacking and slashing everything that moves. *sigh*

I'm screwed.

I was sent by the Fighter's Guild to collect 200 septims from a hooker (well, a madam) who wouldn't pay her debt. And she wouldn't pay me. And she wouldn't pay me. So I finally just killed the bitch and took the money. I mean, how cool is that. Then I got orders to collect a bounty on an orc. He wouldn't cooperate, either. Dead orc. I still get my money. Sweet. Then the Guild sends me off to Vivec to do work there, which involves yet another orc, this time one with a ring he ought not have. He won't cough it up. I provoke him into starting a fight with me. I kill him and take the frelling ring (this is when I realized it was 5:20 a.m.).

Jim Shimkus, you are an evil dude.

But, anyway...

I'm not on my way to Birmingham, because I decided that Nar'eth needs a new wig, so we rescheduled the appointment for cutting and styling to September 1st (cutting things close, as usual). Now, I have to go to Atlanta Costume and order a new wig. Perfectionism, I tell you. It's a pain in the rump.

Work? What's that? Writing? What?

Oh, yeah. Writing. Well, I'm essentially done with The Dry Salvages, but you already knew that. I have an sf story to write for Bill Schafer (possibly a new take on James Blish's "Surface Tension"), and I must, must, must frelling get started on Daughter of Hounds. We also need to set up some local signings for Murder of Angels. I don't usually do local signings, but I think I'm going to do two or three for this book.

See? Writing stuff.

scarletboi called yesterday afternoon from Tampa to assure us that he and memkhet were safe and sound. But I've been watching the progress of Charley, and I'm worried about them and cinzazul. We'll try to reach them again this afternoon.

Spooky's busy hammering gromets somewhere in the apartment, working on these little leather gauntlet-like thingys for her costume. I should finish this up and get busy my own self. Oh, we're about to do a BIG ASS eBay sale. But more on that tomorrow.