Thursday, May 13, 2004
This morning, I was sitting here, checking my e-mail or some shit. I stretch, and my sternum pops, as it sometimes does when I stretch. "What was that?" Spooky asked, and when I told her, she made a disgusted face, like I'd just asked her to eat raw pork or something, and "You're weird," she says. To which I reply, "Hey, you're the one who tells me to whine like a puppy when we're having sex." And she says, "Well, you're the one who actually does the whining."
Good gods. I think I'm channeling Hollis Gillespie.
Okay. Just pretend you never read any of that.
What I meant to say was that today we have to do chapters Eight and Nine of Murder of Angels (and, may I just say, as well, we are both so frelling sick of frelling proofreading). But first, I have to get "Waycross" off to Steve Jones, and I still haven't sent the photo for Authors and Artists for Young Adults, which means a trip to the post office before we can even begin reading. And I'd really like to see A Midsummer Night's Dream in Piedmont Park this evening, but we don't have time to pick up tickets, and it's probably going to rain anyway, so we'll most likely just wait and try to see it on Sunday, instead.
Yesterday, in all the running around, I bought four new eight-sided dice at the Sword of the Phoenix (yes, I am a big dork) and also found a copy of Cemetery Dance #48, which has a very good review of Low Red Moon (And if you haven't already, please, please, please be nice, follow the link, and buy a copy. Blogger and LJ are neat, but they don't pay my bills.).
How can it possibily be Thursday already?
And to top it all off, we just got a notcice from the vet reminding us that Sophie is due for a fecal exam.
Oh, the joy.
11:23 AM
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