typo patrol

I just realized that I put up the link to the Valentine's Porn With Plot and hadn't edited the pages to fix the typos. So I pasted in the spellchecked text, and failed to realize for some time that in doing so I'd killed the HTML anchors that made the "click here to skip to the smut" links work. So I've just fixed those. I am so thoroughly not clever that it pains me.

I have been going to bed very early lately, and then wondering why I wake up early. Duhhh. I held out until nearly 10:00 last night, and so I managed to sleep until nearly 7:00 this morning. I am the cleverest of the clever.

Have had a dearth of good bartender stories lately. Lots of chatterboxes, none distilling themselves into anything pithy I can post. Oh well. I blame my attention span rather than people suddenly becoming boring-- I know it's me. I go through phases where it's all succinct and poignant and I write it all down and it's great, and then I go through phases where I can talk to someone for an hour and not get a single quotable out of it. Yesterday some Minnesotan was telling me he used to play hockey in high school with one of the guys on the Olympic team that beat the Soviets, but he couldn't get his facts straight, and I just couldn't be bothered to try and piece that together into a narrative. Another day, I'd've found it a challenge. (I tend to fictionalize them anyway, so it's not like I couldn't come up with something out of that. I don't have journalistic integrity to worry about.)

I need... something. Well, financially, I need to find at least another 8 hours at least of work. But oh Lord I cannot face looking for it. And now I have to start worrying about how to get to work and get Dave to school with just the one car. But he doesn't know his schedule yet. So I don't know... Ehhhhh. There's a bus. Sometimes. Someday. Whatever.

(Edit: No, it's not 8 more hours a week I need, it's at least $75 a week I need. Which, I've just looked up, means 12.5 hours at minimum wage, about 11 hours at $7/hr... in short, I need a position to pay me slightly over $9/hr if I just want 8 more hours. Pfeh. If I have to take a job at Wilson Farms it's going to mean I either never sleep or abandon the Novel.)

because i have no children, friends, or sentient pets

( If the line that follows makes no sense, read the background here. )

Gibson FLARED at me today!!!

He's not broken! He's a normal fish!

Dave claims he's been flaring at him on and off all week, as Dave sits on the couch next to him, but I haven't seen it. Today I sat down and Gibson saw me and puffed out his fins and flared at me.

Wow, my fish isn't retarded anymore.

Dear [Manager in charge of scheduling]

( A letter: Dear [Manager In Charge Of Scheduling], )

So, whatcha think? Is that a reasonable way of stating it for the benefit of [Manager Who Does Scheduling]?


In other news, I've just gone and set up e-payments for all the bills I can afford. How. Very. Depressing. Niagara-Mohawk hungers for my flesh more than Alexander The Betta Fish does. *shudder* (Envisions the electric company leaping out of its tank and devouring me as Alexander wishes to.)

Relevant quote:
Dave (to Alexander the Betta fish, after eating a fish fry on Friday night): I just ate a fish that could have eaten a fish that could have eaten you!
Alexander: *flares at Dave*