Meh.

Jun. 4th, 2008 03:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Yesterday was . . . a day. Like any other day. Only worse.

I was too worried about other crap to really enjoy myself much. Dinner was other people talking. The high point of the night was when my dad began discussing the uncut version of Caligula with my in-laws. I think that may, in fact, have been the high point of the week.

He then lay down what I am pretty sure was a complete line of bullshit about how Mom proposed to him by telling him she was pregnant, and how he falsified first his driver's license and then his birth certificate in order to get married legally, whereupon he called the DA and asked exactly how much trouble he was in. There is a thread of truth in most of my fathers' stories -- he is not habitually a liar, though he does enjoy occasionally pulling legs -- but if the entirety of that yarn was true, I will eat it and crap a knitted scarf.

This is all just as well. I was in a Mood. If he hadn't entertained me, I'd have entertained myself by talking about Rasputin's pickled penis, or about porn, or buttsex, or all three, and that never leads anywhere good.

Of course, no family event is complete without a roll on the wandering anatomical event table, and adding a birthday in is just adding a +5 modifier. In the middle of dinner I realized that feminine TMI was about to occur when a stabbing pain made itself known in my groinal region. I made it home in time to contain it, but I am now achy and cranky, and that is all the complaining I will do about that, because I don't think I get to complain about cramps when a friend just had a bad go-round with a kidney stone.

I will say that at least two friends are in this boat with me, and even with company, it sucks.

Sargon supplied presents, however, and I am happy with that. I got an excellent shirt:



"Better living through merciless experimentation" is probably one of the better mottos I've seen.

The high point of the night was definitely torturing captives. Nothing like roleplaying a pirate to take the edge off one's frustrations. Alas, I am afraid I could roleplay for three days solid and still not work through all my hostilities.

I spent most of today in pain from the aforementioned TMI, and aside from time spent with friends and silly dogs, today had very little to recommend it.

That's . . . pretty much all the update I have tonight.

Meh.

Jun. 4th, 2008 03:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Yesterday was . . . a day. Like any other day. Only worse.

I was too worried about other crap to really enjoy myself much. Dinner was other people talking. The high point of the night was when my dad began discussing the uncut version of Caligula with my in-laws. I think that may, in fact, have been the high point of the week.

He then lay down what I am pretty sure was a complete line of bullshit about how Mom proposed to him by telling him she was pregnant, and how he falsified first his driver's license and then his birth certificate in order to get married legally, whereupon he called the DA and asked exactly how much trouble he was in. There is a thread of truth in most of my fathers' stories -- he is not habitually a liar, though he does enjoy occasionally pulling legs -- but if the entirety of that yarn was true, I will eat it and crap a knitted scarf.

This is all just as well. I was in a Mood. If he hadn't entertained me, I'd have entertained myself by talking about Rasputin's pickled penis, or about porn, or buttsex, or all three, and that never leads anywhere good.

Of course, no family event is complete without a roll on the wandering anatomical event table, and adding a birthday in is just adding a +5 modifier. In the middle of dinner I realized that feminine TMI was about to occur when a stabbing pain made itself known in my groinal region. I made it home in time to contain it, but I am now achy and cranky, and that is all the complaining I will do about that, because I don't think I get to complain about cramps when a friend just had a bad go-round with a kidney stone.

I will say that at least two friends are in this boat with me, and even with company, it sucks.

Sargon supplied presents, however, and I am happy with that. I got an excellent shirt:



"Better living through merciless experimentation" is probably one of the better mottos I've seen.

The high point of the night was definitely torturing captives. Nothing like roleplaying a pirate to take the edge off one's frustrations. Alas, I am afraid I could roleplay for three days solid and still not work through all my hostilities.

I spent most of today in pain from the aforementioned TMI, and aside from time spent with friends and silly dogs, today had very little to recommend it.

That's . . . pretty much all the update I have tonight.
naamah_darling: Animated icon of Ioan Gruffudd looking very pissed with a succession of horrible profanity added. (Tourette's)
Two entries today, but what the hell, I feel like it. Aren't you all the luckiest fuckers?

Thanksgiving was mag. Sargon's folks are very kind.

I love my family, but one thing I can't say for us is that we aren't really very "nice" people. And his parents are. Very nice. On the one hand, it's great not to have to worry about getting a conversational knife in my conversational nethers, but on the other, that doesn't stop me from being on the lookout which no doubt makes me look reserved and touchy.

I have swearing priviliges in front of them, though. They didn't spontaneously combust when I said "fuck" or "asshole." I didn't venture into the "crotch-sucking dick-puke jizzlobbers" school of pirate-like profanity, though; it was just the standard four-letter words. I still say if I whipped out "maggot-cocked, smegma-gorged suckers of Satan's starfruit" at them, they might shit a parade of golden kittens.

Or not. You never can tell when someone will really appreciate "slime-soaked cockholster" as an epithet. Lots of good swearers don't look it. I mean, do I really look like someone who routinely tells the neighbor's dog to "suck on a worm-riddled tit, you drooling, floppy-lipped pile of shit, or I'll cleave you at the castration scar"? And yet I am. I'm sure I'll be even better at it by the time I'm an old lady.

I'd promise all of you an entry about "How To Swear" but I don't think it's something you can teach. To get a well-honed tongue, you have to heat the iron of a native gift in the fires of loathing, hammer it with experience, and then quench it in years of accumulated bile. And it helps to know -- or work with -- a lot of sphincter-winking shitheads.

Anyway, Thanksgiving was grand. Sargon and I drove down with my dad, who is lacking all the right marbles if you know what I mean, and to our delight, Dad Darling and Dad the Terrible got along just fine. Well, fuck. If two men man can't bond over guns, knives, and Vietnam stories, odds are one of them is dead. Or a hippie.

Incidentally, I find it ironic that by virtue of extending pseudonyms my foul-natured and scatological family have ended up Darlings, and Sargon's polite kinfolk have been designated "the Terrible" into perpetuity.

I feel . . . stuffed, still, though that's probably lunch at the Metro (speaking of rancid fuckholes . . .) talking. Tonight, it's hanging with family-friends for Battlestar Galactica, and tomorrow there's dinner with pals, guaranteed asshole-free. I feel surrounded by so much love. Love like a pulsing, squeezy fist.

I got to shoot guns yesterday. There are pictures. I'll be putting up the good ones soon. You'll love it.

I swear.
naamah_darling: Animated icon of Ioan Gruffudd looking very pissed with a succession of horrible profanity added. (Tourette's)
Two entries today, but what the hell, I feel like it. Aren't you all the luckiest fuckers?

Thanksgiving was mag. Sargon's folks are very kind.

I love my family, but one thing I can't say for us is that we aren't really very "nice" people. And his parents are. Very nice. On the one hand, it's great not to have to worry about getting a conversational knife in my conversational nethers, but on the other, that doesn't stop me from being on the lookout which no doubt makes me look reserved and touchy.

I have swearing priviliges in front of them, though. They didn't spontaneously combust when I said "fuck" or "asshole." I didn't venture into the "crotch-sucking dick-puke jizzlobbers" school of pirate-like profanity, though; it was just the standard four-letter words. I still say if I whipped out "maggot-cocked, smegma-gorged suckers of Satan's starfruit" at them, they might shit a parade of golden kittens.

Or not. You never can tell when someone will really appreciate "slime-soaked cockholster" as an epithet. Lots of good swearers don't look it. I mean, do I really look like someone who routinely tells the neighbor's dog to "suck on a worm-riddled tit, you drooling, floppy-lipped pile of shit, or I'll cleave you at the castration scar"? And yet I am. I'm sure I'll be even better at it by the time I'm an old lady.

I'd promise all of you an entry about "How To Swear" but I don't think it's something you can teach. To get a well-honed tongue, you have to heat the iron of a native gift in the fires of loathing, hammer it with experience, and then quench it in years of accumulated bile. And it helps to know -- or work with -- a lot of sphincter-winking shitheads.

Anyway, Thanksgiving was grand. Sargon and I drove down with my dad, who is lacking all the right marbles if you know what I mean, and to our delight, Dad Darling and Dad the Terrible got along just fine. Well, fuck. If two men man can't bond over guns, knives, and Vietnam stories, odds are one of them is dead. Or a hippie.

Incidentally, I find it ironic that by virtue of extending pseudonyms my foul-natured and scatological family have ended up Darlings, and Sargon's polite kinfolk have been designated "the Terrible" into perpetuity.

I feel . . . stuffed, still, though that's probably lunch at the Metro (speaking of rancid fuckholes . . .) talking. Tonight, it's hanging with family-friends for Battlestar Galactica, and tomorrow there's dinner with pals, guaranteed asshole-free. I feel surrounded by so much love. Love like a pulsing, squeezy fist.

I got to shoot guns yesterday. There are pictures. I'll be putting up the good ones soon. You'll love it.

I swear.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (A Taste For Danger)
I've been walking every day for a week or so now and it's already made a visible difference in terms of my general skinniness -- my waist has shrunk another inch and a half, leading to an even more ridiculous ass-to-midsection ratio, which is now somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen inches. In that time I've also doubled the length of time I can comfortably walk, and more than doubled the distance I can run. I wouldn't normally think of walking as being at all impressive, but the past year I've really slipped out of shape because of my game leg, and it was an effort to go half an hour those first couple of days. Now I'm up to an hour, and probably a couple of miles. The leg seems fine most days, so there's no reason to hold back.

I've been getting to know all the corners of my neighborhood which I had not previously bothered to explore. There's a junk shop not far off, and yesterday I landed a whopper of a deal on a 3-speed mountain bike, ugly as all hell but in amazing condition. New tires, new chain, gel seat cover; all it needs is some basic brake work and a little oil to be truly rideable. For forty bucks, I walked away with a very nice bike.

The funny part was watching me try to ride again after 15 years. On my first try, I pitched straight over into a patch of cockleburrs. Probably the only patch for five miles in any direction, too. My second try I remembered how to ride, and got around the block at extreme high velocity. And there was much celebration. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to ride; I used to bike about five miles a day when I was a kid, and there was a reason for that. I had also forgotten how much work it is! I rode the bike home, a distance of about six blocks, and was totally winded. So much for being in good physical condition! Sheesh! At least I know it'll be good exercise.

See, all this is part of the Big Secret Plan whereby I lose as much of this extra lard as possible before the middle of next month when, presumably, Sargon is cleared for launch.

Dinner with his parents went well, by the way. They're always enjoyable company. I was extremely amused when they started bringing out pictures of relatives' babies only to hastily assure us that this was in no way to be construed as a hint of any kind. I replied with something like "Even if it were, I doubt I'd notice," which is true. I can, when it comes to things like that, be thick as the proverbial brick. But they're supportive of our choice, and were quite pleased to hear of Sargon's little procedure.

His family and mine have been remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. I keep wondering what planet I've fallen onto; it's apparently inhabited solely by reasonable people. Fair enough, I suppose, given the unreasonableness I have endured over the years from the medical community.

I'm working on the latest box, still; it lacks but two sides to be complete. Sadly, one of those is the top panel, which is going to take some doing. I'm also working on two super-secret projects for friends' birthdays, both of which are frivolous and silly, but will be deeply cool if I can just get them to turn out.

And now, I must go take my morning constitutional. That hip-to-waist ratio won't get any sillier all by itself, you know.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (A Taste For Danger)
I've been walking every day for a week or so now and it's already made a visible difference in terms of my general skinniness -- my waist has shrunk another inch and a half, leading to an even more ridiculous ass-to-midsection ratio, which is now somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen inches. In that time I've also doubled the length of time I can comfortably walk, and more than doubled the distance I can run. I wouldn't normally think of walking as being at all impressive, but the past year I've really slipped out of shape because of my game leg, and it was an effort to go half an hour those first couple of days. Now I'm up to an hour, and probably a couple of miles. The leg seems fine most days, so there's no reason to hold back.

I've been getting to know all the corners of my neighborhood which I had not previously bothered to explore. There's a junk shop not far off, and yesterday I landed a whopper of a deal on a 3-speed mountain bike, ugly as all hell but in amazing condition. New tires, new chain, gel seat cover; all it needs is some basic brake work and a little oil to be truly rideable. For forty bucks, I walked away with a very nice bike.

The funny part was watching me try to ride again after 15 years. On my first try, I pitched straight over into a patch of cockleburrs. Probably the only patch for five miles in any direction, too. My second try I remembered how to ride, and got around the block at extreme high velocity. And there was much celebration. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to ride; I used to bike about five miles a day when I was a kid, and there was a reason for that. I had also forgotten how much work it is! I rode the bike home, a distance of about six blocks, and was totally winded. So much for being in good physical condition! Sheesh! At least I know it'll be good exercise.

See, all this is part of the Big Secret Plan whereby I lose as much of this extra lard as possible before the middle of next month when, presumably, Sargon is cleared for launch.

Dinner with his parents went well, by the way. They're always enjoyable company. I was extremely amused when they started bringing out pictures of relatives' babies only to hastily assure us that this was in no way to be construed as a hint of any kind. I replied with something like "Even if it were, I doubt I'd notice," which is true. I can, when it comes to things like that, be thick as the proverbial brick. But they're supportive of our choice, and were quite pleased to hear of Sargon's little procedure.

His family and mine have been remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. I keep wondering what planet I've fallen onto; it's apparently inhabited solely by reasonable people. Fair enough, I suppose, given the unreasonableness I have endured over the years from the medical community.

I'm working on the latest box, still; it lacks but two sides to be complete. Sadly, one of those is the top panel, which is going to take some doing. I'm also working on two super-secret projects for friends' birthdays, both of which are frivolous and silly, but will be deeply cool if I can just get them to turn out.

And now, I must go take my morning constitutional. That hip-to-waist ratio won't get any sillier all by itself, you know.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lipstick Heart)
Dinner with Sargon's folks on his birthday was interesting. Right as they were packing it up to go home, his mother remarked to me that Sargon's sister (not present) had mentioned that I'm opinionated. I was both amused and a bit surprised, since both times I've been around her for any length of time, I have been, I thought, rather reserved and withdrawn. Both times, I retreated to a corner after about an hour and a half and simply sat quietly. Nothing compared to how outspoken and mouthy I've become during the past year (and I know I'm not imagining that). Anyway, Sargon's mom, lovely woman that she is, hastily commented that it's not a bad thing to be opinionated, and his father was quick to agree, stating that he wished he could get his college students to cough up a point of view now and then.

I was amused. Partly because they seemed to think that I, a woman of 28 who writes porn for fun and profit and considers the term "bitch" to be a compliment, might be offended by being called "opinionated."

Also, partly because I apparently conveyed this impression to them over the course of many years without consciously trying to. Indeed, they latched onto it despite my actively trying not to come across as overbearing. Many is the time I've visited them only to wind up impersonating furniture. In person, I tend to be content to listen, not necessarily converse.

So I'm interested in knowing how you see me. I promote a certain image of myself heavily here, and it's vetted and cultivated, like any public facade. This isn't a bad thing, but it strikes me that people have a way of ferreting out the truth anyhow.

This toy is fascinating. A little thing that's floating around the old f-list. It's Johari window, a way of grouping traits I perceive in myself against traits you see in me. While the list of available adjectives is notably lacking in certain departments (I see no box for "creative" or "perverse"), it is still an interesting, if rough, tool.

As a means of seeing how other people perceive me, I encourage you to go and nudge the thing a bit. I'm fascinated by the differences in how people see me and how I really think I am. I have a tremendous amount of dissonance over how I believe I really am and how I feel I come across in person and online (more or less the same for online and in person, though I've always thought I seem slightly less intelligent and assertive in person).

I do note that the adjectives listed are all neutral or positive in connotation, and are weighted toward the gentler end of the spectrum. Note there are no boxes for "violent" or "brooding." This leads to a false shininess in the results that sort of bugs me. I'm comfortable being honest. If they had presented negative traits for selection, I would have selected those I felt applied to me, and I would have been interested to see if, as a group, the lot of you perceived negative trends in my behavior of which I'm unaware. (Doubtful, but as a thoughtful introvert, I'm always waiting for that stabbing ray of light to come down from heaven, illuminate some cobwebby corner of my soul, and reveal the secret of me to myself.)

Anyway. I'm interested. So go, play with it. Make your own. I've been messing with the ones on my f-list, when I can get them to work.

Will be back tomorrow with BPAL reviews. I'm expecting The Package containing my LEs in the morning.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lipstick Heart)
Dinner with Sargon's folks on his birthday was interesting. Right as they were packing it up to go home, his mother remarked to me that Sargon's sister (not present) had mentioned that I'm opinionated. I was both amused and a bit surprised, since both times I've been around her for any length of time, I have been, I thought, rather reserved and withdrawn. Both times, I retreated to a corner after about an hour and a half and simply sat quietly. Nothing compared to how outspoken and mouthy I've become during the past year (and I know I'm not imagining that). Anyway, Sargon's mom, lovely woman that she is, hastily commented that it's not a bad thing to be opinionated, and his father was quick to agree, stating that he wished he could get his college students to cough up a point of view now and then.

I was amused. Partly because they seemed to think that I, a woman of 28 who writes porn for fun and profit and considers the term "bitch" to be a compliment, might be offended by being called "opinionated."

Also, partly because I apparently conveyed this impression to them over the course of many years without consciously trying to. Indeed, they latched onto it despite my actively trying not to come across as overbearing. Many is the time I've visited them only to wind up impersonating furniture. In person, I tend to be content to listen, not necessarily converse.

So I'm interested in knowing how you see me. I promote a certain image of myself heavily here, and it's vetted and cultivated, like any public facade. This isn't a bad thing, but it strikes me that people have a way of ferreting out the truth anyhow.

This toy is fascinating. A little thing that's floating around the old f-list. It's Johari window, a way of grouping traits I perceive in myself against traits you see in me. While the list of available adjectives is notably lacking in certain departments (I see no box for "creative" or "perverse"), it is still an interesting, if rough, tool.

As a means of seeing how other people perceive me, I encourage you to go and nudge the thing a bit. I'm fascinated by the differences in how people see me and how I really think I am. I have a tremendous amount of dissonance over how I believe I really am and how I feel I come across in person and online (more or less the same for online and in person, though I've always thought I seem slightly less intelligent and assertive in person).

I do note that the adjectives listed are all neutral or positive in connotation, and are weighted toward the gentler end of the spectrum. Note there are no boxes for "violent" or "brooding." This leads to a false shininess in the results that sort of bugs me. I'm comfortable being honest. If they had presented negative traits for selection, I would have selected those I felt applied to me, and I would have been interested to see if, as a group, the lot of you perceived negative trends in my behavior of which I'm unaware. (Doubtful, but as a thoughtful introvert, I'm always waiting for that stabbing ray of light to come down from heaven, illuminate some cobwebby corner of my soul, and reveal the secret of me to myself.)

Anyway. I'm interested. So go, play with it. Make your own. I've been messing with the ones on my f-list, when I can get them to work.

Will be back tomorrow with BPAL reviews. I'm expecting The Package containing my LEs in the morning.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (NaNo Red)
Wow!

Okay, a lot to sum up.

Thank you, everyone, for your well-wishes, sick jokes, and naked pictures. Sargon is terribly pleased. Pun intended. Dinner last night was excellent; we had a ripping good time hanging out with Mr. and Mrs. the Terrible. Our attractive waitress was no doubt quite pleased to see us depart, as the four of us together were only slightly more quiet and less destructive than a pack of hyenas.

The good news is that things have taken a turn for the better, income-wise. The bad news is that it necessitates a shitload of work on my part. Now, it's all work I enjoy, but it's still there, hanging over my shoulder like a burning skull.

Got tapped to write a freelance story, which kicks ass; I won't talk more about that until it's done, but I'm looking forward to writing it, provided I can have an idea in the roughly one month before it is due. The first idea I thought I had hit rock when I realized I'd read a story like that quite recently, and the other died as a result of me deciding that while I do need to write about that someday, this is not that day. Back into the file it goes. I'm confident my brain will cough something up. It always does. How this happens is just one of the great mysteries about the creative process.

The cheesy porn-for-pay gig is back online, and as tiring as it can be writing that sort of thing day in and day out, it pays like a motherfucker. A couple months of it could pay off the majority of our debt quite painlessly. Another couple, if I can stomach it, would set us up with doctor money for a good chunk of the rest of the year.

And now the news I'm glad to finally be able to report:

The editor of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4 called Sargon yesterday. From London. I was asleep on top of the phone and didn't hear it ring, which is a crying shame as one of my lifelong ambitions has been to speak to a British man on the phone while lounging naked in bed.

Then again, perhaps that's just as well.

Anyway, the editor was very happy to hear from me, or rather, my hairy representative. He had only one contact point for me, my old email address that I quit using because email wasn't getting through, and he tried emailing me twenty-five times or so, with no luck. Faced with the choice of not publishing the story or publishing it and hoping like mad I got hold of him, he chose to boldly fling caution to the wind like so many articles of clothing and see my story into print. I'm so glad he did. And, yes, apparently he loved the story just that much; it's position in the front of the book was no mistake. Major, major ego-boost, there.

Anyway, the check is in the mail, as they say, and I'll be getting a box of books, including the latest volume, for my own personal nefarious purposes. I see multiple family members getting inscribed copies as gifts.

I'm quite happy, though those of you keeping track will know that I never was displeased about the circumstances, only confused. I knew it was something of the sort, and that nobody was trying to rip me off.

It makes a better story this way, anyway, and what good is living life if it doesn't read well?

Better news is the fact that he's reading for TMBOBNE 6 right now, and has asked if I have anything available. I have something that may well qualify. Three years ago I'd have crawled under the rug and pissed myself rather than try to follow up on success, but now I'm just sick of sitting on my ass. So I'm going to run that opportunity into the ground. Politely, but this fucker is going down.

I say all this not by way of bragging, but simply to point out that two weeks ago I was sucking hind tit; both bank accounts were on empty, and I had no prospects. And now all this falls into my lap, and suddenly things look, if not rosy, at least manageable. Fortune presents gifts not according to the book.

You know, it's not the money I care about. I can live without it -- have lived without it. What I can't do without is hope. Hope makes all conditions bearable. There was a time when I would have scorned hope as a fool's shelter and would have demanded the security, but having lived the past year without hope and with money, I can honestly say that I would rather do without the latter.

I'm going out now to send packages to those what need 'em. Consider, the three of you, that there's no way I can cram as much of my caring-about-you into those damn things as I'd like to. Know that you have my love.

And that goes for the rest of you, too. The past 24 hours on my f-list have been . . . profound. My heart is yours to read, for whatever words of comfort you may find written there.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (NaNo Red)
Wow!

Okay, a lot to sum up.

Thank you, everyone, for your well-wishes, sick jokes, and naked pictures. Sargon is terribly pleased. Pun intended. Dinner last night was excellent; we had a ripping good time hanging out with Mr. and Mrs. the Terrible. Our attractive waitress was no doubt quite pleased to see us depart, as the four of us together were only slightly more quiet and less destructive than a pack of hyenas.

The good news is that things have taken a turn for the better, income-wise. The bad news is that it necessitates a shitload of work on my part. Now, it's all work I enjoy, but it's still there, hanging over my shoulder like a burning skull.

Got tapped to write a freelance story, which kicks ass; I won't talk more about that until it's done, but I'm looking forward to writing it, provided I can have an idea in the roughly one month before it is due. The first idea I thought I had hit rock when I realized I'd read a story like that quite recently, and the other died as a result of me deciding that while I do need to write about that someday, this is not that day. Back into the file it goes. I'm confident my brain will cough something up. It always does. How this happens is just one of the great mysteries about the creative process.

The cheesy porn-for-pay gig is back online, and as tiring as it can be writing that sort of thing day in and day out, it pays like a motherfucker. A couple months of it could pay off the majority of our debt quite painlessly. Another couple, if I can stomach it, would set us up with doctor money for a good chunk of the rest of the year.

And now the news I'm glad to finally be able to report:

The editor of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4 called Sargon yesterday. From London. I was asleep on top of the phone and didn't hear it ring, which is a crying shame as one of my lifelong ambitions has been to speak to a British man on the phone while lounging naked in bed.

Then again, perhaps that's just as well.

Anyway, the editor was very happy to hear from me, or rather, my hairy representative. He had only one contact point for me, my old email address that I quit using because email wasn't getting through, and he tried emailing me twenty-five times or so, with no luck. Faced with the choice of not publishing the story or publishing it and hoping like mad I got hold of him, he chose to boldly fling caution to the wind like so many articles of clothing and see my story into print. I'm so glad he did. And, yes, apparently he loved the story just that much; it's position in the front of the book was no mistake. Major, major ego-boost, there.

Anyway, the check is in the mail, as they say, and I'll be getting a box of books, including the latest volume, for my own personal nefarious purposes. I see multiple family members getting inscribed copies as gifts.

I'm quite happy, though those of you keeping track will know that I never was displeased about the circumstances, only confused. I knew it was something of the sort, and that nobody was trying to rip me off.

It makes a better story this way, anyway, and what good is living life if it doesn't read well?

Better news is the fact that he's reading for TMBOBNE 6 right now, and has asked if I have anything available. I have something that may well qualify. Three years ago I'd have crawled under the rug and pissed myself rather than try to follow up on success, but now I'm just sick of sitting on my ass. So I'm going to run that opportunity into the ground. Politely, but this fucker is going down.

I say all this not by way of bragging, but simply to point out that two weeks ago I was sucking hind tit; both bank accounts were on empty, and I had no prospects. And now all this falls into my lap, and suddenly things look, if not rosy, at least manageable. Fortune presents gifts not according to the book.

You know, it's not the money I care about. I can live without it -- have lived without it. What I can't do without is hope. Hope makes all conditions bearable. There was a time when I would have scorned hope as a fool's shelter and would have demanded the security, but having lived the past year without hope and with money, I can honestly say that I would rather do without the latter.

I'm going out now to send packages to those what need 'em. Consider, the three of you, that there's no way I can cram as much of my caring-about-you into those damn things as I'd like to. Know that you have my love.

And that goes for the rest of you, too. The past 24 hours on my f-list have been . . . profound. My heart is yours to read, for whatever words of comfort you may find written there.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SMRT)
*hwaaack* I habe a code. By throde hurts. *schnaaaaaaaaack!* I cad't sbell adythig. Ad by leg hurds too. *glurrrk*

That's more or less what I sound like.

I hope all of you who celebrate it had a good holiday, whether your idea of that is time spent with family or time spent profoundly away from them.

I woke up this morning with whatever low-level drek Sargon's been fighting off. The key words here are "fighting off." He doesn't have it bad, we thought it was just allergies. It's not. On me, it's a cold. The kind where you wake up feeling like the inside of your skull has been scoured with a kerosene-soaked Brillo pad and then filled with that sticky stuff they use to glue inserts into magazines. You know, the stuff that looks like snot but has the same elasticity as rubber bands, and which sticks to anything? Yeah. My head is where the snot elves are mining that crap this week. I'm hoping mine makes it into Esquire.

We went to go see my mom but I couldn't go further than the bedroom door. I don't want to give her whatever this is. She's susceptible to pneumonia even when she isn't immunosuppressed from high doses of strange drugs and dying of cancer. Friends have been dropping in all day so she's had company, and was in good spirits. And I say that without irony. She seemed okay.

I made cookies and apple crisp and took it to Mr. and Mrs. the Terrible, where they were much appreciated, and a merry dinner was had by all. Sadly, though they live far off in the country, there was no shooting of guns today. By the time we finished eating, it was dark. The apple crisp was a hit -- thanks to everyone who provided recipes, as I snatched something from almost every single one of them. I did a fair bit of my own improvising as well. It needed ginger, apparently. And it wanted molasses in the topping. Really, really tasty.

On the downside, the hour plus drive each way really put a cramp in my style, so my leg hurts again. Still, one day with no pain at all is a definite improvement, and I'll take what I can get.

I realize you are all just enthralled by this mundane crap. I'll be entertaining later, I swear. Right now I'm just sort of enjoying having the time to ramble. I'm still working on the crappy porn novel, tentativlely titled "The Vixen" for lack of anything more imaginative, but I'm not proceeding at the same breakneck 2,300 word a day pace. It's slowed to something like a stately 1,500.

Instead of writing, I've been watching TV a lot -- a luxury I hardly ever allow myself, because it really does rot your mind. (The Egyptians used naptha to dissolve the brain during mummification, but if they'd had Friends or Seinfeld back then, I'm sure they would have used that instead.)

Sargon's been making me watch The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., which is possibly the most wonderfully horrible TV show I have ever willingly held still to watch. This is not a show that jumps the shark. It is a show about the shark, where it gets jumped in every single episode. Just when I think they've done the dumbest thing they could possibly do, they do something dumberer. I shouldn't need to tell you I'm having a fantastic time with it. "Utah Johnny Montana" is possibly the best name for a bounty hunter ever. We have the show courtesy of downloads on the 'net via [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie, but whoever has the rights really needs to put a nice version out on DVD. This needs to reach a wider audience.

Hmm. Actually, now that I think about it, this whole "nose running" thing could just be the terrific cheesiness of this show liquefying my gray matter.

*schnokk!*

Adyway, I'be goig to get sub real wridig done before by Dy-Quil kigs id. Goodight!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SMRT)
*hwaaack* I habe a code. By throde hurts. *schnaaaaaaaaack!* I cad't sbell adythig. Ad by leg hurds too. *glurrrk*

That's more or less what I sound like.

I hope all of you who celebrate it had a good holiday, whether your idea of that is time spent with family or time spent profoundly away from them.

I woke up this morning with whatever low-level drek Sargon's been fighting off. The key words here are "fighting off." He doesn't have it bad, we thought it was just allergies. It's not. On me, it's a cold. The kind where you wake up feeling like the inside of your skull has been scoured with a kerosene-soaked Brillo pad and then filled with that sticky stuff they use to glue inserts into magazines. You know, the stuff that looks like snot but has the same elasticity as rubber bands, and which sticks to anything? Yeah. My head is where the snot elves are mining that crap this week. I'm hoping mine makes it into Esquire.

We went to go see my mom but I couldn't go further than the bedroom door. I don't want to give her whatever this is. She's susceptible to pneumonia even when she isn't immunosuppressed from high doses of strange drugs and dying of cancer. Friends have been dropping in all day so she's had company, and was in good spirits. And I say that without irony. She seemed okay.

I made cookies and apple crisp and took it to Mr. and Mrs. the Terrible, where they were much appreciated, and a merry dinner was had by all. Sadly, though they live far off in the country, there was no shooting of guns today. By the time we finished eating, it was dark. The apple crisp was a hit -- thanks to everyone who provided recipes, as I snatched something from almost every single one of them. I did a fair bit of my own improvising as well. It needed ginger, apparently. And it wanted molasses in the topping. Really, really tasty.

On the downside, the hour plus drive each way really put a cramp in my style, so my leg hurts again. Still, one day with no pain at all is a definite improvement, and I'll take what I can get.

I realize you are all just enthralled by this mundane crap. I'll be entertaining later, I swear. Right now I'm just sort of enjoying having the time to ramble. I'm still working on the crappy porn novel, tentativlely titled "The Vixen" for lack of anything more imaginative, but I'm not proceeding at the same breakneck 2,300 word a day pace. It's slowed to something like a stately 1,500.

Instead of writing, I've been watching TV a lot -- a luxury I hardly ever allow myself, because it really does rot your mind. (The Egyptians used naptha to dissolve the brain during mummification, but if they'd had Friends or Seinfeld back then, I'm sure they would have used that instead.)

Sargon's been making me watch The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., which is possibly the most wonderfully horrible TV show I have ever willingly held still to watch. This is not a show that jumps the shark. It is a show about the shark, where it gets jumped in every single episode. Just when I think they've done the dumbest thing they could possibly do, they do something dumberer. I shouldn't need to tell you I'm having a fantastic time with it. "Utah Johnny Montana" is possibly the best name for a bounty hunter ever. We have the show courtesy of downloads on the 'net via [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie, but whoever has the rights really needs to put a nice version out on DVD. This needs to reach a wider audience.

Hmm. Actually, now that I think about it, this whole "nose running" thing could just be the terrific cheesiness of this show liquefying my gray matter.

*schnokk!*

Adyway, I'be goig to get sub real wridig done before by Dy-Quil kigs id. Goodight!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Again, I've been rather busy, and haven't had time to update with the day-to-day of my rather frustrating week. So, here, just to keep you all abreast of what's been going on, are the highlights.

I tried to make it amusing, at least.

Friday: Leather Jackets! )

Monday: I am healthy. Sargon is sick! )

Tuesday: Sargon is still sick. )

Wednesday: Broken vibrators, broken snow globes, and Sargon is still sick. )

Thursday: Kittyblue and Umsy beware! )

This morning: Peppermint makes the cat telepathic. )

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Again, I've been rather busy, and haven't had time to update with the day-to-day of my rather frustrating week. So, here, just to keep you all abreast of what's been going on, are the highlights.

I tried to make it amusing, at least.

Friday: Leather Jackets! )

Monday: I am healthy. Sargon is sick! )

Tuesday: Sargon is still sick. )

Wednesday: Broken vibrators, broken snow globes, and Sargon is still sick. )

Thursday: Kittyblue and Umsy beware! )

This morning: Peppermint makes the cat telepathic. )

link

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naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
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