(no subject)
My continued efforts to suck money out of people's wallets have given birth to the following things:
Twilight of the Idols: Pounded in the Ass By the Concept of Autonihilism by Max Stroke:
Another Chuck-Tingle-type title to help everyone decide to read this story. Mike Bentley's washing machine breaks and instead of a handyman he gets a debate about epistemological nihilism and rammed in the ass.
Quickly realising that I am still 100% the kid who stares you dead in the eye while eating the worm you dared them to eat.
And also this:
A literal internet tip jar, at last.
Other than that: I had a haircut, I mopped the bathroom, I figured out how to burn frankincense at last (it requires charcoal, numbnuts), cancelled the additional subscription to TokyoTreat and got a refund (Whoopsie), failed to buy any helium for my dick balloons ("we can fill your balloons if you bring them in," said the woman in the CHILDREN'S TOY SHOP. Um, no.), managed to get more cauli rice for work, did nothing exceptionally productive, spent part of last night BAGGING TINY PASTA what a cool dude I am.
Tomorrow is RADIO RECORDING FUNTIMES with Susanne and guilt-stricken research for the book, I suspect, as I won't have the ability to do sewing-related stuff. I feel markedly more FREE AND BREEZY having finished both the copywriting work and the GARBAGE PORN writing, it must be said. CAN'T LET THIS GET ON TOP OF ME AND MAKE ME LAZY I still have a series of books to plan and -- oh yeah I had my first go with the heavier weights today. My biceps are weak knots of failure, but practice makes CAR-LIFTIN' STRONG.
And Maud has gone halves with me on the SCI FI NUTRIGRUEL so I can blog about my attempts to make it into SCI FI NUTRIPANCAKES and so on. I mean, there are other things I could blog about, like, oh, the mad max hoodie and the book research and so on? Or the existence of the tip jar? but fuck that, let's just... dick around with PRETEND FOOD.
Twilight of the Idols: Pounded in the Ass By the Concept of Autonihilism by Max Stroke:
Another Chuck-Tingle-type title to help everyone decide to read this story. Mike Bentley's washing machine breaks and instead of a handyman he gets a debate about epistemological nihilism and rammed in the ass.
Quickly realising that I am still 100% the kid who stares you dead in the eye while eating the worm you dared them to eat.
And also this:
A literal internet tip jar, at last.
Other than that: I had a haircut, I mopped the bathroom, I figured out how to burn frankincense at last (it requires charcoal, numbnuts), cancelled the additional subscription to TokyoTreat and got a refund (Whoopsie), failed to buy any helium for my dick balloons ("we can fill your balloons if you bring them in," said the woman in the CHILDREN'S TOY SHOP. Um, no.), managed to get more cauli rice for work, did nothing exceptionally productive, spent part of last night BAGGING TINY PASTA what a cool dude I am.
Tomorrow is RADIO RECORDING FUNTIMES with Susanne and guilt-stricken research for the book, I suspect, as I won't have the ability to do sewing-related stuff. I feel markedly more FREE AND BREEZY having finished both the copywriting work and the GARBAGE PORN writing, it must be said. CAN'T LET THIS GET ON TOP OF ME AND MAKE ME LAZY I still have a series of books to plan and -- oh yeah I had my first go with the heavier weights today. My biceps are weak knots of failure, but practice makes CAR-LIFTIN' STRONG.
And Maud has gone halves with me on the SCI FI NUTRIGRUEL so I can blog about my attempts to make it into SCI FI NUTRIPANCAKES and so on. I mean, there are other things I could blog about, like, oh, the mad max hoodie and the book research and so on? Or the existence of the tip jar? but fuck that, let's just... dick around with PRETEND FOOD.