Naked Lovecraft in Drag
Sunny and cold in Providence. The high is currently 46˚F. In Birmingham, it's 69˚F.
But Birmingham is well inside the boundaries of Trumpland.
It's been a hard and trying few days, the tedious handful of days since the return from Manhattan, what with the rush to get all the proofreading finished and gets manuscripts back to Subterranean Press and Tor so that everything would stay on schedule. I need to be working on new fiction, not nitpicking over things I wrote in 2015 and 2012 and 2011 and 2010. It's done now, and everything has been mailed away, but the focus I was struggling to hang onto back in September and the first half of October is now sorely lacking. I have vowed I will do no more major proofreading until I'm done with a new novel. Let's see if I can stick to that. Truthfully, the way I feel at this moment I don't even want to try and write. I want to get in the car and go somewhere far away from this goddamn suffocating room, away from these four red walls and these two windows looking out on houses built much too near to one another and that crushing blue sky.
I don't know what's going to happen today. I'm not going to hazard a guess.
I keep meaning to sit down and write something about the Season 7 premier of The Walking Dead, but I haven't been able to summon the requisite whatthefuckver. So, read this review by someone at Tor. It pretty much sums up my own feelings. I call it "audience fatigue," what I feel. I fell in love with TWD in Season 2, but it began to lose me in Season 5, and the Sunday night's episode was, as they say, the final straw. Enough is enough. It's one thing to portray a sadistic character, and it's quite another for the creators of the series creators to sadistically manipulate their viewers.
On the other hand, Kathryn and I are foam-rubber ass over silicone tits in love with RuPaul's Drag Race. We watched Season 5 first, skipped back to Season 4, then forward again to Season 6, and now we're almost done with Season 7 - all since October 14th! We were delighted when Bianca Del Rio won. And does anyone else think that Max (Season 7) is a dead ringer for H.P. Lovecraft? Learning her sexual hangups made the resemblance all the eerier.
I did get out of the house yesterday. I went with Spooky to the post office on Thayer and to the UPS place at Wayland Square and to Eastside Market. It wasn't much, but it was someplace that isn't this room.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast
But Birmingham is well inside the boundaries of Trumpland.
It's been a hard and trying few days, the tedious handful of days since the return from Manhattan, what with the rush to get all the proofreading finished and gets manuscripts back to Subterranean Press and Tor so that everything would stay on schedule. I need to be working on new fiction, not nitpicking over things I wrote in 2015 and 2012 and 2011 and 2010. It's done now, and everything has been mailed away, but the focus I was struggling to hang onto back in September and the first half of October is now sorely lacking. I have vowed I will do no more major proofreading until I'm done with a new novel. Let's see if I can stick to that. Truthfully, the way I feel at this moment I don't even want to try and write. I want to get in the car and go somewhere far away from this goddamn suffocating room, away from these four red walls and these two windows looking out on houses built much too near to one another and that crushing blue sky.
I don't know what's going to happen today. I'm not going to hazard a guess.
I keep meaning to sit down and write something about the Season 7 premier of The Walking Dead, but I haven't been able to summon the requisite whatthefuckver. So, read this review by someone at Tor. It pretty much sums up my own feelings. I call it "audience fatigue," what I feel. I fell in love with TWD in Season 2, but it began to lose me in Season 5, and the Sunday night's episode was, as they say, the final straw. Enough is enough. It's one thing to portray a sadistic character, and it's quite another for the creators of the series creators to sadistically manipulate their viewers.
On the other hand, Kathryn and I are foam-rubber ass over silicone tits in love with RuPaul's Drag Race. We watched Season 5 first, skipped back to Season 4, then forward again to Season 6, and now we're almost done with Season 7 - all since October 14th! We were delighted when Bianca Del Rio won. And does anyone else think that Max (Season 7) is a dead ringer for H.P. Lovecraft? Learning her sexual hangups made the resemblance all the eerier.
I did get out of the house yesterday. I went with Spooky to the post office on Thayer and to the UPS place at Wayland Square and to Eastside Market. It wasn't much, but it was someplace that isn't this room.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast