(no subject)

urghhhh I am at home without the car today, stuck at home to try and get something productive done.
I have retrieved all my old notes about this old novel and am trying to figure out how far back I have to prune it before I can let it grow with the dead wood gone. Alternatively, maybe I should just take a cutting and start over? I don't really know what to do with it, and I'm a bit hung up on things like hating the characters' names and being unable to tell at what point precisely the plot goes from interestingly complex to overly byzantine. There must be a line, but I really can't find it. And of course, I actually let the thought "why should I even bother with this?" cross my mind just now, which isn't a very good start.

Sigh.

For the moment, other matters:

1) ( Scooter )

So... I dunno. New scooter, pristine and virginal? Used scooter, less worrisome and more customizable?
The debate rages on.

2)( Running Away To Japan )

What does any of this actually mean? I don't know. I'll find out early next week what my hours at work are going to be. And I still haven't had any bright ideas about what to do with my life.


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* Only the Latvians would insist that the red of their flag actually be the color of shed human blood (apparently, Pantone 1807C). You see the kind of people I'm dealing with, here.

I would like to thank my sponsor, Liberal Use Of Emphatic Italics, for making this post possible

How on earth did I hurt my neck? My neck is fucking killing me. Goddamn it. I am at the end of a wonderful three-day weekend which I began in an utter trance of pain, and now I'm back to square fucking one. What the fuck is wrong with my body parts? I did something to my neck and I didn't even leave the fucking house today.
That's it, I'm disabled. Time to sit at home and be sad I can't be productive. I mean, shit, yo.

I've written something, but it's not good. It's the villain of the story going on angrily for two pages about how he's not a fucking villain, he's just a guy trying to live his goddamn life. And he's right. He's not a villain. My fifteen-year-old self, however, had some trouble with the whole, I dunno, reasonable characterization concept, and so he didn't really get to have any motivations of his own, but he's right. He's not a goddamn villain, and I'd best stop making him do stupid shit, or he's quitting.

The novel's hero has spoken up too, but only in my head, saying that I'd better ease up on the gratuitous torture of him as well. Like, that's still my favorite thing ever, the gratutious torture of innocents (read any of my fanfic? Yeah, I redefine angst on a chapterly basis, when I'm not writing porn [and sometimes when I am, which is frightening]), but I think he's right: the novel should probably have some other plot devices than simply me coming up with new situations in which he can be tortured, either mentally or physically or emotionally. I mean really. Did I do this shit on purpose, or was I really that sick a fuck as a teenager? Don't answer that, even if you knew me.

I also took a short break and read selections of Get Your War On, which I must be a bit of a poser and point out I read back when it was "My New Filing Technique Is Unstoppable!". Which would be why I am so ridiculously full of bad words. As I remember from the original recommendation of mnftiu.cc, the cartoonist builds solid things out of swear words.
Get your motherfucking war on! I mean, fuck.

But my fucking neck motherfucking hurts and I'm fucking sick of this shit. ARGH. Also, my theoretical writing talent is wondering what the point is. I mean, I can't write anything on command, I can't write on commission, I can't write for other people, I can't write for myself, and I can't write anything for money at all. God forbid I should have some way to make a living off this theoretical talent. Fuck it, time to lose 20 pounds and become a stripper; maybe then I could appreciate something God gave me, and by "appreciate" I mean "make a fucking living with".

Pain does not make me cranky. Futility, likewise, doesn't make me difficult to be around, in the slightest. No.
Z has to go to the Apple Store after work, for work. I'm going to go along, but I think I would be much more pleased if there were martinis at the Apple Store. Can I make a stupid joke about Apple martinis? I think so. But I won't. I will spare you all.

God damn.

i had to blog this

We're going to the Apple Store. Z wants to see the iPod Nanos. But we're really going there to get his boss's personal computer fixed. "And I have his credit card number, if they need it," he said.
Upon my expression of disbelief, he produced a Post-It with the boss's corporate credit card number and expiration date written on it.


Weird company.

oh the humanity

Good thing for the day:
All summer I have been picking the strawberries from our two tiny strawberry plants as they ripen, and have been putting them into a tupperware container in the freezer. I finally gave up and bought a little tray of raspberries at the grocery store, and put some of them in with the strawberries in the fridge with some sugar. Tonight I put them into ice cream. And it was really, really, really good ice cream. So that's the good thing of the day.


In other news, have finally broken through and come up with a feasible plot adaptation of the Novel That Ate My Adolescence. This is a huge thing, a really great development, and I am psyched beyond belief.

But it's bedtime on what amounts to a Sunday night for me, and I doubt I'll have any real time to do any work on it this week. GAH.

Eh well. At least this weekend wasn't entirely wasted. I think I have enough written down that I can come back and recapture the psyched-ness next time I have a few hours to myself.

I know I haven't explained any of this writing shit very well, but I'll just tell you all to be psyched for me and perhaps awesomeness will eventually result.


Oh, and PS:
The guy with the used Stella says he'll do all the body repair work up to and including priming it for painting for just $200, bringing the total purchase price up to only $2000. So Z can paint it himself, as Latvian Red as his little heart could desire, and have a custom scooter for $800 less than buying it new, not even including the costs of putting a new scooter on the road. (There are setup fees, etc, but not when it's used.)
And my dad weighed in with his opinion, which is that he's all about the used vehicles in general. So I think Z will be getting his scooter ahead of schedule.

I still need leather pants, people.