this is what is going on
In the world of terrible ideas, the story I spent yesterday working on has this line of summary: 1993-4 Whalers: Holmgren, McGuire, Verbeek, Pronger, and Bob Goodenow. It's not as terrible as the summary of a story from two weeks ago, which runs: PRETTY MUCH DUDES ERIC LINDROS HAD SEX WITH AND THAT'S A BAD IDEA. It's dull and horrifying at the same time, great. The new approach, putting words on the fucking page, is great for producing 2500 word outlines that have zero potential readers. Oh well at least it is stuff, maybe it will spill over into stories that are interesting to people other than me.
Edward does not deign to look at him. "Shall we go this afternoon, or the next?" He stares at the patterns in the fireplace, the rapid re-grouping and flow of the flames. It's a cold fire, and hardly worth the name, but his mother has found herself torn between her dignity as the Queen of France, and her hatred as the Queen of England, and as such has become very thrifty: with the feeling to spread it as far as she may, and the Exchequer. There is too much of one, and not enough of the other.
"This afternoon. The light is still good." Edward looks out at what he figures to be several hours before darkness. "Come to the stables, we'll bring traps."
"I rather thought that was unsporting. Nasty --" Edward waits, hanging the word by its lonesome, like a traitor swinging at the gate. "Nasty little enclosures, hardly suitable for men such as ourselves. The meat, apparently, tastes stronger when the animal has only just been blooded."
(because, Edward III is, apparently, appealing to a vast number of people.)
Trade deadline is coming up! Last year I had a full-on holiday, but this year is not as much fun. Partly because I have other things to occupy myself with, yet mostly because Hemsky and/or Penner are leaving. Of course that's stupid, rebuilding sucks, the front office wishes a world without splendor. As this is what splendor looks like. Since I am crying anyway now, might as well do it about Hemsky! (nb not actually crying, only sad.) This week's story may well be stuff Horcoff texted Hemsky, now that they are not even the last remains of the 2006 team. Or it could be Hemsky and Greene going to the beach. In one there's phones, and in the other there's weather, obviously this is a tough choice between my fave themes.
After church with faded-lilac, talked to someone who is writing a letter of recommendation for me, and I had to remind myself to a) call him by his actual name and b) not compare my scores to that dumb goal Roy let in. As on this Livejournal, things always come back to the Red Wings.
Edward does not deign to look at him. "Shall we go this afternoon, or the next?" He stares at the patterns in the fireplace, the rapid re-grouping and flow of the flames. It's a cold fire, and hardly worth the name, but his mother has found herself torn between her dignity as the Queen of France, and her hatred as the Queen of England, and as such has become very thrifty: with the feeling to spread it as far as she may, and the Exchequer. There is too much of one, and not enough of the other.
"This afternoon. The light is still good." Edward looks out at what he figures to be several hours before darkness. "Come to the stables, we'll bring traps."
"I rather thought that was unsporting. Nasty --" Edward waits, hanging the word by its lonesome, like a traitor swinging at the gate. "Nasty little enclosures, hardly suitable for men such as ourselves. The meat, apparently, tastes stronger when the animal has only just been blooded."
(because, Edward III is, apparently, appealing to a vast number of people.)
Trade deadline is coming up! Last year I had a full-on holiday, but this year is not as much fun. Partly because I have other things to occupy myself with, yet mostly because Hemsky and/or Penner are leaving. Of course that's stupid, rebuilding sucks, the front office wishes a world without splendor. As this is what splendor looks like. Since I am crying anyway now, might as well do it about Hemsky! (nb not actually crying, only sad.) This week's story may well be stuff Horcoff texted Hemsky, now that they are not even the last remains of the 2006 team. Or it could be Hemsky and Greene going to the beach. In one there's phones, and in the other there's weather, obviously this is a tough choice between my fave themes.
After church with faded-lilac, talked to someone who is writing a letter of recommendation for me, and I had to remind myself to a) call him by his actual name and b) not compare my scores to that dumb goal Roy let in. As on this Livejournal, things always come back to the Red Wings.