Oh my fucking gods.
Somehow, about 7:30 a.m., I wandered into the bedroom and managed to fall asleep, listening to Spooky sleep, listening the Rachel's Selenography. I'm not entirely sure what happened in the two and a half hours preceding that. I know that I seriously considered getting dressed, taking the camera, and wandering Federal Hill taking dawn photos. Of course, when the drugs finally did kick in (as they evidently did), I'd have fallen asleep beneath a tree or in a storm drain, and right now Spooky would have the Providence PD out looking for me.
Things I can do at dawn thirty, fucked up on meds, unable to sleep: print fliers, go into WoW and put stuff up in the auction house on the Exodar. I can also take photos, post them to the internet, and make two blog entries, and talk to the cats, and urinate, and twat about ceramic cephalopods. Wait. Maybe that last part was before I began trying to sleep.
I love you, Nathan Fillion.
Tip: While good intentions are noted, it's a bad idea to tell the insane, sleep-deprived lady whose been an insomniac since grade school all the various home remedies you know for getting to sleep. Trust me. If you've thought of it, so have I. If you've read it somewhere, so have I. I've tried it. A thousand times, along with a thousand other clever and ineffective things I thought up on my own. Yes, even that one. And that one, too. Thank you.
I think my present mental state might best be described as manic quasi-consciousness. Good thing I only have one thousand things I need to do today.
Correction to yesterday's ReaderCon schedule: My Sunday reading is not thirty minutes long; it's one hour long. Two to three p.m., Sunday afternoon.
Yesterday...we went to Warwick and saw Michael Mann's Public Enemies (fictionalized from a non-fiction book by Bryan Burrough) which was actually quite good. Depp and Bale were both excellent. Lovely cinematography. Great soundtrack and score. But, we meant to attend the 3:15 show. We even bought tickets for the 3:15 show. But when we went into that "auditorium," we discovered it was actually a closet with a tiny little screen, and none of the seats actually centered with the screen. Worse yet, it smelled like cat piss. Or an abandoned baby diaper. So, we went back to the ticket booth and told them we could not possibly enjoy Johnny Depp and Christian Bale shooting at each other with machine guns on that tiny screen in a room that stunk of cat piss. The nice woman seemed very understanding and exchanged our old tickets for new tickets to the 3:45 showing, in a huge auditorium with a huge screen and centered seats and no cat-piss smell. Yay. It only smelled like old popcorn. So, yeah, good movie.
Since I have been awake (almost an hour now), only one thing has not brought me acute pain. Simon & Garfunkel. Go figure.
I should do something responsible now, like post a link to The Red Tree, and remind you that unless the sales those first few weeks are really good, I'm moving to Kamchatka to live in a hollow stump. No kidding. These things happen all the goddamn time. You think writers just get tired of writing and go into some more fulfilling and profitable line of work, like the food-services industry. No. They go to Kamchatka. There's a Russian word for them, but I've forgotten it. Oh, and if I were responsible, I'd say please subscribe to Sirenia Digest, 'cause these days, it keeps a roof above mine and Spooky's head.
Which reminds me, I think Readercon 20 has totally missed the boat on programming. Don't get me wrong, these are all marvelous panels, the one's they've scehduled. At least, they would be, in an ideal world. Which this isn't. So, where's the important stuff that writers need to know? Like, "Why are we letting Google Books ass rape us and not even putting up a fight?" and "Friends don't help friends become freelancers," and "A writers guide to home dentistry"? Especially the Google Books thing, because, you know, fine, information might want to be fucking free, but until groceries want to be free, and electricity wants to be free, and water, and rent wants to be free, and health care wants to be free, and we all live in a happy green cyber-hippy utopia ruled by our benevolent King Moby, I need to get paid. It might not sound very artistic of me, but it's the goddamned truth.
Platypus: Caitlín?
Me: Yeah? What?
Platypus: You need to stop now.
Me: Oh. But....
Platypus: No buts. Go sit over there and suck your thumb. I'll erase the death threats against Google execs, and all that stuff about having sex with vacuum cleaners. Go. Now.
Platypus: Sorry guys. She gets like this. Move along. Nothing here to see.
Things I can do at dawn thirty, fucked up on meds, unable to sleep: print fliers, go into WoW and put stuff up in the auction house on the Exodar. I can also take photos, post them to the internet, and make two blog entries, and talk to the cats, and urinate, and twat about ceramic cephalopods. Wait. Maybe that last part was before I began trying to sleep.
I love you, Nathan Fillion.
Tip: While good intentions are noted, it's a bad idea to tell the insane, sleep-deprived lady whose been an insomniac since grade school all the various home remedies you know for getting to sleep. Trust me. If you've thought of it, so have I. If you've read it somewhere, so have I. I've tried it. A thousand times, along with a thousand other clever and ineffective things I thought up on my own. Yes, even that one. And that one, too. Thank you.
I think my present mental state might best be described as manic quasi-consciousness. Good thing I only have one thousand things I need to do today.
Correction to yesterday's ReaderCon schedule: My Sunday reading is not thirty minutes long; it's one hour long. Two to three p.m., Sunday afternoon.
Yesterday...we went to Warwick and saw Michael Mann's Public Enemies (fictionalized from a non-fiction book by Bryan Burrough) which was actually quite good. Depp and Bale were both excellent. Lovely cinematography. Great soundtrack and score. But, we meant to attend the 3:15 show. We even bought tickets for the 3:15 show. But when we went into that "auditorium," we discovered it was actually a closet with a tiny little screen, and none of the seats actually centered with the screen. Worse yet, it smelled like cat piss. Or an abandoned baby diaper. So, we went back to the ticket booth and told them we could not possibly enjoy Johnny Depp and Christian Bale shooting at each other with machine guns on that tiny screen in a room that stunk of cat piss. The nice woman seemed very understanding and exchanged our old tickets for new tickets to the 3:45 showing, in a huge auditorium with a huge screen and centered seats and no cat-piss smell. Yay. It only smelled like old popcorn. So, yeah, good movie.
Since I have been awake (almost an hour now), only one thing has not brought me acute pain. Simon & Garfunkel. Go figure.
I should do something responsible now, like post a link to The Red Tree, and remind you that unless the sales those first few weeks are really good, I'm moving to Kamchatka to live in a hollow stump. No kidding. These things happen all the goddamn time. You think writers just get tired of writing and go into some more fulfilling and profitable line of work, like the food-services industry. No. They go to Kamchatka. There's a Russian word for them, but I've forgotten it. Oh, and if I were responsible, I'd say please subscribe to Sirenia Digest, 'cause these days, it keeps a roof above mine and Spooky's head.
Which reminds me, I think Readercon 20 has totally missed the boat on programming. Don't get me wrong, these are all marvelous panels, the one's they've scehduled. At least, they would be, in an ideal world. Which this isn't. So, where's the important stuff that writers need to know? Like, "Why are we letting Google Books ass rape us and not even putting up a fight?" and "Friends don't help friends become freelancers," and "A writers guide to home dentistry"? Especially the Google Books thing, because, you know, fine, information might want to be fucking free, but until groceries want to be free, and electricity wants to be free, and water, and rent wants to be free, and health care wants to be free, and we all live in a happy green cyber-hippy utopia ruled by our benevolent King Moby, I need to get paid. It might not sound very artistic of me, but it's the goddamned truth.
Platypus: Caitlín?
Me: Yeah? What?
Platypus: You need to stop now.
Me: Oh. But....
Platypus: No buts. Go sit over there and suck your thumb. I'll erase the death threats against Google execs, and all that stuff about having sex with vacuum cleaners. Go. Now.
Platypus: Sorry guys. She gets like this. Move along. Nothing here to see.