Going Postal.
I suppose I should update so you people don't wonder what happened to me.
I've been having the Weekend From Hell.
The US Postal Service has changed some basic shipping rules, which means the cards are going out flat, in large envelopes, and not boxed, as I had hoped. Since that means they aren't folded, I won't be able to stick the bumpy sequins on the Queen of Heaven cards. I'm just pissed about this whole thing. Terribly sorry, all.
I'd send them a different way, but at this point, making other arrangements would be so time-consuming and horrible that I can't manage it. I can barely swing getting the car for fifteen minutes at a time. So they go out stuffed into Priority envelopes, and I have my fingers crossed that they don't arrived folded, spindled, mauled or mutilated.
I now hate both the USPS and Kinko's, but I won't go into that here. Or into any of the other ways my weekend decided to fuck me over and steal all the free time that I would normally use for relaxing. My blood pressure is already too high, and dwelling on all that is not helpful.
Instead of brooding the shit out of you lot, I will attempt to be more positive.
Friday was the Night of Gluttony at the monthy Writer's Meeting, wherein good stories were read, and much food was had. It is a landmark (or perhaps a sign of the impending apocalypse) that there were no Little Debbies at all. We were without snack cakes. There were, however, cookies, and a huge bowl of animal crackers. I ate so much I felt sick well into the next day. You would think I'd learn. And you'd be wrong.
I didn't read anything - I suffer from a deep-seated belief that nobody really wants to hear another chapter of bad sci-fi space opera - but I love schmoozing with friends and listening to their stories.
Though, as a public service, I will now formally request that every writer who reads this take a solemn vow.
"I (insert your name), do solemnly swear never to use repetitive onomatopoeia, unless it is for comedic effect, and even then, I can expect the Writer Police to come to my house and slap me across the face with a dead, frozen ferret. I understand that repeated violations will lead to embarrassing facial tattoos and, possibly, amputation of one or both thumbs."
Anyway. The show on Saturday went about as well as can be expected. I danced a solo and solo improv, looked gorgeous, and got to see friends. Fairly uneventful, aside from the incredibly tiny performance space allotted to us.
I'm trying not to hate the fact that I am still so far behind the other girls, but I am hating it, because I am behind. In skipping a couple of the big shows and all those practices, I lost out on a lot of experience. I'm also trying not to freak out about the fact that tonight is a big troupe meeting, and there's big business in the offing . . . I can smell it. No idea if it's good or bad.
The rest of the weekend pretty much bit. Between marital stress, book stress, business stress with the card order getting cocked up and the postage rates and forms and such changing on me, and lack of restful sleep (my psychic disturbance has finally penetrated far enough that it is disrupting my sleep patterns), I am on the thinnest ice imaginable right now. Just one thing went wrong yesterday, and I ended up shivering and rocking back and forth. And I don't feel a whole lot better today, let me tell you.
This is the disadvantage of being articulate and funny. People assume that, if you were doing really, tremendously poorly, you would not be able to be expressive or witty. Sadly, this just isn't true. Words and humor are hardwired into people like me, they fail only before total brain-death. The fact that I am still walking around, talking, smiling, and making jokes does not mean that I am all right. It means that some Hellish force has reached out and animated me like the living dead. I am not myself. I am a sock-puppet for Alastor the Deceiver or something. Or possibly Lugubria, Queen of Ennui and Runny Eyeliner, patron saint of goth LARPers and the chronically depressed.
Right now, I'm going to go get more done on Moon-Forests of Arcadia and try to forget this shitty, shitty weekend. I'm going to pretend there is something to look forward to this week. I am going to ignore all the crap that needs to be done. I am going to tend to my word count and hope that everything else comes out okay.
Goodnight, all! Hopefully I will update again tomorrow, maybe with something more upbeat.
link
I've been having the Weekend From Hell.
The US Postal Service has changed some basic shipping rules, which means the cards are going out flat, in large envelopes, and not boxed, as I had hoped. Since that means they aren't folded, I won't be able to stick the bumpy sequins on the Queen of Heaven cards. I'm just pissed about this whole thing. Terribly sorry, all.
I'd send them a different way, but at this point, making other arrangements would be so time-consuming and horrible that I can't manage it. I can barely swing getting the car for fifteen minutes at a time. So they go out stuffed into Priority envelopes, and I have my fingers crossed that they don't arrived folded, spindled, mauled or mutilated.
I now hate both the USPS and Kinko's, but I won't go into that here. Or into any of the other ways my weekend decided to fuck me over and steal all the free time that I would normally use for relaxing. My blood pressure is already too high, and dwelling on all that is not helpful.
Instead of brooding the shit out of you lot, I will attempt to be more positive.
Friday was the Night of Gluttony at the monthy Writer's Meeting, wherein good stories were read, and much food was had. It is a landmark (or perhaps a sign of the impending apocalypse) that there were no Little Debbies at all. We were without snack cakes. There were, however, cookies, and a huge bowl of animal crackers. I ate so much I felt sick well into the next day. You would think I'd learn. And you'd be wrong.
I didn't read anything - I suffer from a deep-seated belief that nobody really wants to hear another chapter of bad sci-fi space opera - but I love schmoozing with friends and listening to their stories.
Though, as a public service, I will now formally request that every writer who reads this take a solemn vow.
"I (insert your name), do solemnly swear never to use repetitive onomatopoeia, unless it is for comedic effect, and even then, I can expect the Writer Police to come to my house and slap me across the face with a dead, frozen ferret. I understand that repeated violations will lead to embarrassing facial tattoos and, possibly, amputation of one or both thumbs."
Anyway. The show on Saturday went about as well as can be expected. I danced a solo and solo improv, looked gorgeous, and got to see friends. Fairly uneventful, aside from the incredibly tiny performance space allotted to us.
I'm trying not to hate the fact that I am still so far behind the other girls, but I am hating it, because I am behind. In skipping a couple of the big shows and all those practices, I lost out on a lot of experience. I'm also trying not to freak out about the fact that tonight is a big troupe meeting, and there's big business in the offing . . . I can smell it. No idea if it's good or bad.
The rest of the weekend pretty much bit. Between marital stress, book stress, business stress with the card order getting cocked up and the postage rates and forms and such changing on me, and lack of restful sleep (my psychic disturbance has finally penetrated far enough that it is disrupting my sleep patterns), I am on the thinnest ice imaginable right now. Just one thing went wrong yesterday, and I ended up shivering and rocking back and forth. And I don't feel a whole lot better today, let me tell you.
This is the disadvantage of being articulate and funny. People assume that, if you were doing really, tremendously poorly, you would not be able to be expressive or witty. Sadly, this just isn't true. Words and humor are hardwired into people like me, they fail only before total brain-death. The fact that I am still walking around, talking, smiling, and making jokes does not mean that I am all right. It means that some Hellish force has reached out and animated me like the living dead. I am not myself. I am a sock-puppet for Alastor the Deceiver or something. Or possibly Lugubria, Queen of Ennui and Runny Eyeliner, patron saint of goth LARPers and the chronically depressed.
Right now, I'm going to go get more done on Moon-Forests of Arcadia and try to forget this shitty, shitty weekend. I'm going to pretend there is something to look forward to this week. I am going to ignore all the crap that needs to be done. I am going to tend to my word count and hope that everything else comes out okay.
Goodnight, all! Hopefully I will update again tomorrow, maybe with something more upbeat.
link