My work ethic is the stuff of legend.
Legendarily bad. After I talked everyone's heads off on Friday I then failed to do all the stuff I was meant to on Saturday because of laziness, and now it's Sunday and I'm still trying to catch up, somewhat hampered by endlessly distracting myself (The NHS Bill! Gay saints! Aimlessly trying to draw fat girls flopping listlessly on the floor! Suddenly photographing a load of jewellery! Making more jewellery!) and wandering off mid-rant with a guest post I'm writing for Melanie. I have an OUTLINE. I know what I'm meant to be doing. This isn't even work, "work" would be ACTUALLY DOING SOME PLOTTING or maybe just PUTTING MY EDIT NOTES IN THE RIGHT ORDER never mind actually writing marketing copy I would actually rather fucking die or actually editing anything hahahah.
My reward for finishing the article was going to be "I get to buy the new Leonard Cohen album off iTunes" but I am brooooooke so my reward for finishing it is going to be listening to podcasts, and possibly writing the thoroughly disgusting body horror fic I plotted in the faces of several friends this morning, ALL OF WHOM MYSTERIOUSLY FAILED TO TELL ME NOT TO WRITE IT. You're rubbish friends.
Article about "Banter"
Also I wrote a thing last night based on something crotalus_atrox said (the first three lines); I don't consider it good enough to really be a poem but here, have it anyway:
night is falling on the city.
lights are slowly coming on
in the high rise buildings out my window;
i have my hand stuck in a coil
of my hair straightener's flex,
and i feel as electrified
as the mould growing under the floorboards;
but tomorrow the sun will rise
and i will wake to the sound of
incoming planes. the city will
keep a watch over my sleeping body,
sing me a lullaby of sirens and
drunken shouts. until the sea rises,
or the sun explodes, i know i am
protected until the office block
lights go back out.
My reward for finishing the article was going to be "I get to buy the new Leonard Cohen album off iTunes" but I am brooooooke so my reward for finishing it is going to be listening to podcasts, and possibly writing the thoroughly disgusting body horror fic I plotted in the faces of several friends this morning, ALL OF WHOM MYSTERIOUSLY FAILED TO TELL ME NOT TO WRITE IT. You're rubbish friends.
Article about "Banter"
Also I wrote a thing last night based on something crotalus_atrox said (the first three lines); I don't consider it good enough to really be a poem but here, have it anyway:
night is falling on the city.
lights are slowly coming on
in the high rise buildings out my window;
i have my hand stuck in a coil
of my hair straightener's flex,
and i feel as electrified
as the mould growing under the floorboards;
but tomorrow the sun will rise
and i will wake to the sound of
incoming planes. the city will
keep a watch over my sleeping body,
sing me a lullaby of sirens and
drunken shouts. until the sea rises,
or the sun explodes, i know i am
protected until the office block
lights go back out.