And I'm ever so slightly more depressed than usual, and I think it's the result of rereading Murder of Angels, and all I really want to do is go back to bed and hide in the twists and turns of my ridiculous nightmares.
So, all these things I have to try to do today and tonight. Poppy's coming into town tomorrow, to do a signing at OutWrite Books on Piedmont, and Spooky and I are picking her up at the airport. If I'm lucky, we'll actually have a little time to talk, just to catch up. But I'm not feeling particularly lucky. Regardless, no work will get done tomorrow.
Everything, all at once.
And, on top of that, circumstances beyond my control are conspiring to make it highly desirable (if not actually necessary) to vacate Atlanta for the weekend, so I might lose Saturday and Sunday, as well. I'd planned to finish with MoA on Saturday and then take Sunday off, before beginning "Alabaster" on Monday.
And there hasn't been time to work on updates for Nebari.net or to put Llar'en's neat birthday-clock thingy up on my website or anything of that sort. Or, if there has been the time, there's been no energy or motivation to spare after the hours and hours of reading MoA. I managed to lie on the floor and watch television last night, when I'd have preferred to have been doing something slightly more constructive. I watched Monster Garage and three episodes of The Sopranos.
Blah, blah, blah.
These are not your problems.
I thought that my ruminations on blogs and privacy, or, rather, on blogs and exhibitionism/voyeurism, would provoke more commentary over at the greygirlbeast annex. We always want to believe that our insights are insightful, and that our eurekas aren't old news, even when they are. Or is that only me?
Time to put this thing to bed (too bad I can't go with it), and get on with this trainwreck of a day.