Still alive here. What, you didn't think you'd get rid of me that
easily, did you?
Sargon's on the mend, though what with the four days of enforced inactivity, we now have a very cranky Naamah
. Oh, sure, everything's in working order, this has been established, but there's been no red meat in the diet, if you get my drift. It's all been chicken. Robot chicken at that.
Making things worse, I managed to go out today and spend a hundred dollars that needed
to be spent, but that I didn't exactly want
to spend. So I blew part of my afternoon writing porn-for-hire to try to make up for the hole I put in my bank account.
I want you people to understand something, so pay attention. No matter how gleefully fun the porn I write for myself
is, nine-tenths of the porn (not
the erotica) I write to sell
for me. I do it because I can make ten to twenty dollars an hour if I'm persistent and not screwing around on livejournal (like now; I'm getting paid nothing for this). What I'm saying here is that what I do is not really glamorous in the slightest, no matter what you think.
As evidence, I present this fact, like a sugar-frosted dog turd on a doily:Today, for ten dollars, I wrote 600 words of balloon fetish porn.
It's part of an ongoing project, the majority of which has been quite fresh and exciting. That does not change the fact that I sold a little piece of my soul today. Nor does it change the fact that very shortly I'll be auctioning off other little pieces of it labeled "granny" and "midgets" unless I tell my boss I just can't touch those fetishes without the clinging stench adhering to my soul for the duration of my karmic halflife.
I'd say something about how it's all very sad I'm having to swallow my pride and write hack work, and blah, blah, blah, but the truth is that it pays well, and that I don't mind doing it. I even enjoy it. And more, I enjoy paying the money I owe to people like the utility companies and the internet providers.
Most people fantasize about sex while they're writing off the bills. I'm fantasizing about paying the bills while I'm writing about sex. The irony of this is staggering.
I've been listening to the Jill Tracy stuff that bifemmefatale
sent me, and I owe her another thank-you. This is sincerely the coolest music I've heard in . . . fuck me, for this kind
of music, this is the coolest stuff I have ever heard. Vampire lounge singer, indeed. We have a winner! And the music is dead sexy, too, which I had not fully expected.
In other sexy, sexy news, I got the shipping notice for my Black Phoenix Trading Post order, which should contain one sassy Dragon Moon tee shirt, and on the sexy perfume and sexy boys front, I committed the dual sin today of wearing Casanova while watching the Heath Ledger movie of the same name.
Sargon challenged me -- rather cruelly -- not
to make a single sound of girly longing through the whole movie, and being something of a masochist, I accepted. At one point, where Heath had the little dark glasses
on, oh, oh! I actually developed the hiccups in self-defense. I lasted until they locked Casanova up in prison, at which point I am told I grunted suggestively. I don't remember. I would have been lucky to remember my name at that point. All that saved me is that Heath spent nine tenths of the movie in a really cute but very silly wig, and not in his long, off-blonde ponytail. Otherwise I might have died of dehydration.
I loved the movie. Casanova, as utterly ridiculous as it was, was very much like something I would have written. And how can you say no to such a beautiful face
? I really want to see him play a scenery-chewing villain sometime, because those occasional little evil looks
prove he has the chops to play The Bad Guy.
Needless to say, the movie combined with the incredibly masculine and sexy smelly stuff made for an interesting -- by which I mean explosive -- experience. I apologize for anyone who was caught in the area of effect. They tell me that cleanup is easy with soap and water, though I think you might want to use a hose instead of a spray bottle. And the smell of the perfume oil . . . that may never come out.
You know, Beth should just create a perfume called "Chagrin." It would smell like the guilty pleasure that causes you to ruin your best pair of panties.
And on that note, I am going to go churn out another couple thousand words of the porn equivalent of that gunk they use to coat Chee-tos.
I am not -- I repeat not
-- going to go watch Sky High again, just for the . . . err . . . hottie.
. . .
Not all of it, anyway.