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11 March 2004 @ 10:14 am
Friday! Friday! It's Fri...oh, bugger.  
I wrote for two hours last night. I wrote two short paragraphs. Six sentences. If you wanted to do a time-allocation analysis it might look something like this:

sentence 1: 15 minutes
sentence 2: 42 minutes
sentence 3: 1 minute
sentence 4: 1 minute
sentence 5: 1 minute
sentence 6: 1 hour

You only think I'm joking. And that wasn't time spent playing FreeCell either. Just writing. Thinking about words, looking up words, rearranging words, removing words, putting words back. Most of sentence 6 involved devising an acronym.


Must. Kill. Laughing. Co-workers.

My mind tugged me down the path of wrongness last night as, like building a flimsy house of cards, I tried to imagine a storyline where Spike was shot in the head, suffered brain damage, and was cared for by a moony-eyed Xander. But I couldn't squeeze much angst out of this. I may be reaching the Late Decadent stage of my BtVS fannish era. A jaded period of yawning vampires and bored carpenters, of effete kink and ennui.

This morning I threw up in one of the metro elevators. I think it was the vitamin I'd taken on a nearly empty stomach. I pondered about whether to stay home but I have a lot of work to do, so I confessed to the nearest cop and continued my commute.

Am tired today. Would like to be curled up like a hedgehog in a twist of sheets under a down comforter with my bare feet sticking out from one end and spikes of overgrown hair from the other. One glowering, half-lidded eye visible in a cranny of pillow and bedding, then it closes and I'm asleep.
daddy's not done talking: venice (kita)ros_fod on March 11th, 2004 10:35 am (UTC)
A jaded period of yawning vampires and bored carpenters, of effete kink and ennui.

Okay, so now I'm picturing Spike and Xander in Regency costumes, sitting in a drawing room. Low amber lights sputtering against oatmeal colored wallpaper flecked with minature pink blossoms. Xander's flipping through the cut pages of a book he's not really reading, while Spike lounges, legs spread, spine bowed in strange ways, and stares sullenly and unseeingly into the darkness of the garden outside.

Their collars itch and their cravats are too tight, even for Spike, who doesn't need to breathe of course, but hates the discomfort of it, or maybe revels in it, I'm not sure. Xander keeps rubbing his dry palm against his knee and Spike is twisting a feather quill in his fingers. The shush of the feather catching air is the only sound in the room.

They're really, really bored.

Anna S.eliade on March 11th, 2004 10:40 am (UTC)
Ohhhhh. I love this!
daddy's not done talking: james_complexros_fod on March 11th, 2004 10:40 am (UTC)
As am I, obviously.

And also - I'm sorry I'm a careless tool. I meant to give you hugs, and give you my fervent wishes that you feel better.

*tender administrations of lovely things*