"Hiding in my room, safe within my womb..."
Is there anything worth saying about today. The high was 91.9, with a heat index of 99F. No rain.
Imagine a world where I go outside at least once every other day.
Let's see...I spent the morning worrying about whether Kamala Harris' part in the "defund the police" fiasco was going to come back to bite her in the ass, though, yes, she is doing her best to walk that shit back (as they say). On the other hand, quite a few prominent Republicans are jumping the Trump Crazy Train and endorsing her. There's a lot more, my brain crammed with politics and worry over social unrest (ed est rioting, mostly pro-Palestinian lunacy) in the US and the UK, but I think I've said enough.
… Should we talk about the weather?
Should we talk about the government? ~ "Pop Song 69," R.E.M.
I worked on MP2. I talked to Spooky about how I aboslolutely have to go back to work on The Sun Always Shines on TV at a break neck pace, likely on Tuesday. When it is done, then the whole of Bright Dead Star will be done, and I can be paid, and I really need to be paid. Rent has to be fucking paid, and my self-employment taxes are looming on October, and never mind the dentistry that has not been finished. Yesterday, Nathan Balingrud (one of the few people working in dark fiction worth reading, you want my two cents) said on Twitter: "I have to write faster. I’m tired of being broke." Fucking A, man. Fucking A. If only I could still produce at the breakneck speed I wrote fifteen or twenty years ago, when editors and publishers were asking me how long I could keep it up. I pretended I could keep it up forever. I was very wrong.
And no one's about to pay me for my work on the functional craniomandibular anatomy of a new species of plioplatecarpine mosasaur.
And yeah, I know. Lots and lots and lots of people are fucking broke. I am not whining. I am not special. I do not deserve to have it easier than anyone else. But I am over sixty, my health is shit, and...why the fuck do I feel the need to apologize? That is one of the thousand things wrong with the world, this fear of being angry at your situation because, ineviatbly, someone has it worse. Yes, that's true, and so the fuck what?
“People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought, which they avoid.” (Putting my undergrad philosophy minor to use.) ~ Søren Kierkegaard
And today is Selwyn's 12th Gotch Day. See, we do not know his birthday, but we know it was just a few months before he came to live with us. So, we celebrate his Gotcha Day.
Please visit the Dreaming Squid Sundries shop. But a book. Or a shirt. Thank you.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
11:08 a.m.
Imagine a world where I go outside at least once every other day.
Let's see...I spent the morning worrying about whether Kamala Harris' part in the "defund the police" fiasco was going to come back to bite her in the ass, though, yes, she is doing her best to walk that shit back (as they say). On the other hand, quite a few prominent Republicans are jumping the Trump Crazy Train and endorsing her. There's a lot more, my brain crammed with politics and worry over social unrest (ed est rioting, mostly pro-Palestinian lunacy) in the US and the UK, but I think I've said enough.
… Should we talk about the weather?
Should we talk about the government? ~ "Pop Song 69," R.E.M.
I worked on MP2. I talked to Spooky about how I aboslolutely have to go back to work on The Sun Always Shines on TV at a break neck pace, likely on Tuesday. When it is done, then the whole of Bright Dead Star will be done, and I can be paid, and I really need to be paid. Rent has to be fucking paid, and my self-employment taxes are looming on October, and never mind the dentistry that has not been finished. Yesterday, Nathan Balingrud (one of the few people working in dark fiction worth reading, you want my two cents) said on Twitter: "I have to write faster. I’m tired of being broke." Fucking A, man. Fucking A. If only I could still produce at the breakneck speed I wrote fifteen or twenty years ago, when editors and publishers were asking me how long I could keep it up. I pretended I could keep it up forever. I was very wrong.
And no one's about to pay me for my work on the functional craniomandibular anatomy of a new species of plioplatecarpine mosasaur.
And yeah, I know. Lots and lots and lots of people are fucking broke. I am not whining. I am not special. I do not deserve to have it easier than anyone else. But I am over sixty, my health is shit, and...why the fuck do I feel the need to apologize? That is one of the thousand things wrong with the world, this fear of being angry at your situation because, ineviatbly, someone has it worse. Yes, that's true, and so the fuck what?
“People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought, which they avoid.” (Putting my undergrad philosophy minor to use.) ~ Søren Kierkegaard
And today is Selwyn's 12th Gotch Day. See, we do not know his birthday, but we know it was just a few months before he came to live with us. So, we celebrate his Gotcha Day.
Please visit the Dreaming Squid Sundries shop. But a book. Or a shirt. Thank you.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
11:08 a.m.