The damn book is eating my head. Any minute now, I expect it to start chanting, "Eat braaaains!" like Vanya does. The to-do list for this week no longer includes any book-related tasks. And yet what file is open and eating my braaaaains? Not the rock sprite story. Nooooo. The thing that writes stories is a contrary and giggling imp.
Hmm. That thing may be me. Let's not think too much on that.
After a phone call/Robbie report from porphyrin, I've been getting to half-holler, "Gake up, unGARK!" at markgritter (whose real name, as we all know, is unGARK), which has its own satisfying charms. Himself will be gone this coming week, the start of his Hideous Travel Months. I will need to find the balance between overscheduling and underscheduling in his absence.
The banana bread is baked, the fudge is setting, the house smells good.
Do you know what WorldCon has done to me? It's made me girly enough to go change my shirt so that it goes better with the necklace I want to wear. Girly, girly WorldCon. I know, I know: I was not precisely butch before. I did not show up in Boston with a suitcase full of combat boots and shapeless shirts. (And let's face it, if I dressed in combat boots and shapeless shirts, I would get the, "Awwww, she's trying to look all tough, isn't that cuuuute?" reaction.) Still. It's a little alarming. I may come home with painted toenails next. It's really hard to say. Nor, as my grandpa would ask, can I even spell it.