I’m having one of those weirdly incommunicado weeks. I can’t find anything to write, I don’t seem to be talking to anyone. I just can’t seem to communicate. I can blame this on Resident Evil 4, or on the fact that I just started working out and it’s eating up my time, making me tired, […]
I’m having one of those weirdly incommunicado weeks. I can’t find anything to write, I don’t seem to be talking to anyone.
I just can’t seem to communicate. I can blame this on Resident Evil 4, or on the fact that I just started working out and it’s eating up my time, making me tired, and leaving me sore. Or the fact that I’m deep into the latest Bujold Chalion fantasy (Which fucking rocks – when did she get this good?)
That’s all bull though. The bottom line is, I’m just feeling fucking fried, mentally and emotionally. I’m in one of those places where I drop out so bad I start getting mail from people who want to know if I’m mad at them, or worse, I start to think they’re mad at me.
I need to sleep late and then have noplace to go for a week. I need to take mid-day naps in a hammock under a palm tree and then wake up to lunchtime rum drinks. Instead, I’m looking out the window and seeing night already, and I’m remembering how much I hate this time of year, when the clocks change and suddenly it’s dark before my work day is anywhere close to over.
God, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt tropical air. It feels like a whole fucking lifetime has passed in the fifteen months since last I swam in warm ocean. Two lifetimes maybe. And I’m still dreaming about sailboats.
The nipples are healing well. But I’m remembering how fucking long it takes to heal these things. They are just aching to have someone lick and suck on them. Maybe if I pick up a dental dam…
Piercings are made to be sucked on.
I want to be writing. I have a novel, or a short story, or something, forming in my head. A deranged sort of psycho-drama (well, duh, what else). I have models for three characters, and a vague plot line. But I know I can’t get anywhere. My life has no space in it right now for the kind of drop-everything week I need for a writing project, the kind of week that birthed my novella. Best I can do is write an outline and hope it sticks well enough to write later.
I know, I owe pictures. Halloween pix of the kids, plus I’ll-show-you-mine-you-show-me-yours nipple pictures. Soon. Promise. And maybe one of the dozen entries I have unfinished will finally see completion and I’ll have a meaningful update here.
Just, you know, never assume I don’t love you to death, just because you don’t hear from me.