I hate the telephone. Hate. Haaaaaate. But I have finished two phone chores, leaving two more for the week, unless something comes up. I am mighty. I am fierce. Etc. I should probably go dig up the documentation I need to make those other two phone calls right now, and then I can feel virtuous and, more importantly, liberated from the phone for the rest of the week. The basement is cold. Perhaps if I get tea after digging. Hmm. Perhaps if I promise myself more of the monkey chapter after. The monkey chapter is creepier than I expected. I never expect to be creepy. I think of my own brain as a sunlit meadow. It is apparently a very creepy sunlit meadow sometimes. Other people seem to have noticed this on the order of...um...well, it's looking like eight years ago now, I guess, when the college lit mag published one of my stories.* The self-image, it sometimes takes a good while to catch up. I think it's partly that I'm one of the least depressive people I know, so I sort of think of myself as skipping around singing tra-la in comparison to the rest of you lot. And I forget to account for much of my social group being...writers.
In unrelated news, if there is some chance that you will be in the San Francisco Bay Area in late February or early March, please e-mail me. (Some of you should already have these e-mails. Others of you -- I have either misplaced your e-mail or (mentally) misplaced you, as in, placed you somewhere else. For irrelevant example, I have to remind myself every time I read callunav and juliansinger's posts that they are at least one city farther north than I always think they are, sometimes two. So: Bay Area. Help.)
*I wrote it in a fit of pique at my fiction studio prof. He loved it. My fits of pique are often ineffective in this way. "Take that -- I'll write you a story!" "Oh, cool!" "*sigh*"