The universe spoke to me yesterday. I dropped a full can of soda on my big toe–and proceeded to clutch my foot while attempting to stifle profanity which would have otherwise ignited the air–while my concerned husband and a perplexed skunk looked on. And my knee is stiff and painful from when I bruised it in a violent clash with the coffee table (the coffee table won). So yeah, I hear and I comprehend; the universe sez that movement is overrated. And hey, who am I to argue with the cosmos? I glued my klutzy self to the couch and wrote all day. Now my wingstubs ache.
When can I sign up for a new housing for my brain, please? This one is defective.
Campaigning for the pity vote, obviously:
Warning: There is some nudity on the voting pages. Not safe for work or kiddies!
Received a 7-day rejection from Ideomancer: “While well-written and intriguing, the story ultimately is buried beneath its own weight.” Oo, ouch. Now my ego is bruised too.
I did a Critters crit in the hopes that it might mollify whatever karma-gods have it out for me. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to start sacrificing virgins.
New Words: ?
In my pursuit of an utterly sedentary lifestyle, I pumped out words. “The Better To . . . ” is a bridging scene away from zero draft, but I lost track of my word count. Something like 1K new words were smeared on the page (screen), give or take a couple hundred, and a massive seek-and-destroy on bloat summarily eradicated many of them, as well as some of their hapless kindred. Then more words were brutally shoved, screaming and sobbing, onto the page. Net word count: Who knows? Today, more carnage. Mwahahahaha!
Predictably, my original estimate was off.