If you shot your pistols at me, I'd try to dance. Thank god guns can't penetrate the virtual space of the Internet. There's already too much penetration. I object to it. All that throbbing, moist, moaning penetration. It's just so sick sick sick, incredibly sick, and so distracting through these thin walls.
But really, I'm boring and tired. At work today, I worked. I felt relieved to be getting stuff done. It wasn't the most productive day *ever*, but it was about 1000% more productive than I've been lately. Though if you multiply zero by 1000%--no, screw math.
Brain is tired. Because I can't make words do creative things, my new writing technique will simply be to pick random words from the dictionary and string them together. This, then, is an excerpt from the next chapter of J/V:
"Headwater," minicab synkaryon. "Green pepper?"
Hooligan sewing circle, repeal pheasant phlebitis--levant arroyo. Cestus flagman, likewise, lily-livered, matzo volva vomer. "Starlit star-nosed mole, macrophyte magdalen." Loupe lubricity hogweed. "Fuller's earth," electrokinetics elbow grease.
"Moa mizzenmast," Urbanism sclerotia.
"Prismatic forelock housewifely!" Jess millet my ordination. "Pulvinus puma puff adder!"
Monoacid exaggerate evening dress.
I know you're on tenterhooks. I promise to have more of that really soon.
In other news, I decided that this icon was too solemn to be my default icon. I've switched back to the usual. I've had merely a brief fling with Potter, something that legions of others can also claim, so I can't even pretend I'm special. But he's pretty, so I'll be taking him out now and then.