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Yesterday, there were no horrendous violations by the USPS of the last remaining shreds of my sanity. Instead, I wrote. I managed 1,138 words on "Fish Wife," which is turning out rather well, after three years on the shelf. I should be able to finish it today.
Most mornings, one of the things I do to help wake myself up is read back over blog entries from previous years. This day in 2003. This day in 2008. That sort of thing. This morning's assortment of flashbacks was especially....curious. To start with, on this date in 2004, I wrote:
"This morning, I was sitting here, checking my e-mail or some shit. I stretch, and my sternum pops, as it sometimes does when I stretch. "What was that?" Spooky asked, and when I told her, she made a disgusted face, like I'd just asked her to eat raw pork or something, and "You're weird," she says. To which I reply, "Hey, you're the one who tells me to whine like a puppy when we're having sex." And she says, "Well, you're the one who actually does the whining."
Which was an eye opener, I have to admit.
Then, on this day in 2005, I find "the origin" of Herr Platypus, or, rather, the first time I spoke openly of having a platypus. The news is couched as a metaphor, as I attempt to answer that loathsome question, "What advice would you offer aspiring authors?" I quote:
"My advice is don't ever be so stupid as to get your writing — which I assume you love — all tangled up in the matter of making a living, with matters of finance and the slog for money, because you will surely grow to hate every single goddamn consonant and vowel. Asking your writing to be your breadwinner is like asking your pet platypus to become a prostitute to pay for your crack habit. I mean, who wants to screw a platypus more than once? In the end, you have a cranky, disillusioned pet for whom you have lost all respect, an ailing bank account, a notable lack of crack, and a lot of people walking about wondering why they ever thought sex with a platypus was a good idea in the first place."
Nothing's changed, really, except that my platypus and I have acquired a dodo, which only goes to prove the point I was trying to make. Kids, don't try this at home.
Not much to say about yesterday evening, after the writing. I did some editing at Wikipedia. Spooky made a very yummy pasta salad. We watched more of Season Seven of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Etc. and etc. I've not left the house since Friday, and I really do have to stop this not going Outside thing. I don't think I've let it get this bad since about 1999 or so.
And, as of today, a mere 13 days remain until the dreaded Birthday -5. I truly am dreading it, even if I can't say precisely why. But because dreaded negative numbers are always better with distractions, I have an Amazon wish list here, if you are so inclined.
And now...the platypus awaits.
Most mornings, one of the things I do to help wake myself up is read back over blog entries from previous years. This day in 2003. This day in 2008. That sort of thing. This morning's assortment of flashbacks was especially....curious. To start with, on this date in 2004, I wrote:
"This morning, I was sitting here, checking my e-mail or some shit. I stretch, and my sternum pops, as it sometimes does when I stretch. "What was that?" Spooky asked, and when I told her, she made a disgusted face, like I'd just asked her to eat raw pork or something, and "You're weird," she says. To which I reply, "Hey, you're the one who tells me to whine like a puppy when we're having sex." And she says, "Well, you're the one who actually does the whining."
Which was an eye opener, I have to admit.
Then, on this day in 2005, I find "the origin" of Herr Platypus, or, rather, the first time I spoke openly of having a platypus. The news is couched as a metaphor, as I attempt to answer that loathsome question, "What advice would you offer aspiring authors?" I quote:
"My advice is don't ever be so stupid as to get your writing — which I assume you love — all tangled up in the matter of making a living, with matters of finance and the slog for money, because you will surely grow to hate every single goddamn consonant and vowel. Asking your writing to be your breadwinner is like asking your pet platypus to become a prostitute to pay for your crack habit. I mean, who wants to screw a platypus more than once? In the end, you have a cranky, disillusioned pet for whom you have lost all respect, an ailing bank account, a notable lack of crack, and a lot of people walking about wondering why they ever thought sex with a platypus was a good idea in the first place."
Nothing's changed, really, except that my platypus and I have acquired a dodo, which only goes to prove the point I was trying to make. Kids, don't try this at home.
Not much to say about yesterday evening, after the writing. I did some editing at Wikipedia. Spooky made a very yummy pasta salad. We watched more of Season Seven of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Etc. and etc. I've not left the house since Friday, and I really do have to stop this not going Outside thing. I don't think I've let it get this bad since about 1999 or so.
And, as of today, a mere 13 days remain until the dreaded Birthday -5. I truly am dreading it, even if I can't say precisely why. But because dreaded negative numbers are always better with distractions, I have an Amazon wish list here, if you are so inclined.
And now...the platypus awaits.
