But seriously. This is pretty much the definitive laundry list of all my issues with the final season. Very useful, as well as funny.
I had the most boring conference call this morning, and I had to come in at 8:30 for it. There's a double unfairness there, but then again I missed the last two or maybe three of these meetings for various reasons within my control, so I guess I deserve a dose of unproductive boredom.
Then I went out to get coffee, livesaving java, and saw my old coworker A.P., with his tiny cartoonlike spawn hanging off him in one of those marsupial baby-carriers. I crushed on this guy for a long time--rock drummer hair, intense work ethic, snarky attitude--and now he's married and got a kidling. Proof that people do get lives.
Have been feeling an itchiness to throw myself back into noir, back into a complex universe of interwoven plots and character arcs and so forth. But I've been in a funk for half a year now (Jesus fucking Christ--*half* a fucking *year*) and every weekend that goes by where I barely even try to write just leaves me even more bemused. I don't know what my deal is. I mean, I've had dry spells before, even long ones, but I think every block feels new and different, just like every love or fannish obsession feels unique--like the first time, like the strongest thing you've ever felt, etc. I long for the days when I was so driven I'd go home, sit down, start writing, and not stop until it was time to crash into bed. I'm sick of eating chips and watching cable television.