Time travel hurts my brain.
I am Quite Happy with today's naarmamo art.
Yes. Quite happy. I like the way that scanning it in makes it suddenly more artistic, as though I've gone to the effort of drawing paper and notes and things, instead of simply sticking them on a page. And I quite like the yellow, and the way that the edges of the paint did exactly what I was trying to do, for once, and I love Cyrillic script.
I am horrifically narcissistic.
Today I have been reading almost all day. I finally bought a copy of Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife from a charity shop the other day, and I'm completely and utterly hooked. It's intrigueing, the interweaving of the couple's lives, and I've been reading on and on because I want to know what happens next, what happened then, why, what is going on, how is it going to end? I am hooked.
Unfortunately, it's taken me longer to read than I thought it might. Now I'm annoyed with myself because not only have I spent the entire day reading - not that I mind that, but there are other things I probably ought to do, really - but I now have a smallish chunk of book left. The sort of size that I feel is pointless taking with me on the train tomorrow, because it won't last me the whole journey, and yet too much for me to finish it tonight - I am, really, rather tired, and ought to go to bed. Argh. Catch-22.
Hmm. Things I ought to do, yes. I have done things today, I suppose; I've helped in an attempt to fix the boiler - a failed attempt, but never mind - and I've booked my tickets to the airport for Spain in September. (Well, most of them. I haven't booked my ticket from Stansted back to Birmingham yet, but all the rest are done.) Now, I should probably find some pjs and such for the weekend of JOY with loneraven and hathy_col, and go to bed.
Yes. Quite happy. I like the way that scanning it in makes it suddenly more artistic, as though I've gone to the effort of drawing paper and notes and things, instead of simply sticking them on a page. And I quite like the yellow, and the way that the edges of the paint did exactly what I was trying to do, for once, and I love Cyrillic script.
I am horrifically narcissistic.
Today I have been reading almost all day. I finally bought a copy of Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife from a charity shop the other day, and I'm completely and utterly hooked. It's intrigueing, the interweaving of the couple's lives, and I've been reading on and on because I want to know what happens next, what happened then, why, what is going on, how is it going to end? I am hooked.
Unfortunately, it's taken me longer to read than I thought it might. Now I'm annoyed with myself because not only have I spent the entire day reading - not that I mind that, but there are other things I probably ought to do, really - but I now have a smallish chunk of book left. The sort of size that I feel is pointless taking with me on the train tomorrow, because it won't last me the whole journey, and yet too much for me to finish it tonight - I am, really, rather tired, and ought to go to bed. Argh. Catch-22.
Hmm. Things I ought to do, yes. I have done things today, I suppose; I've helped in an attempt to fix the boiler - a failed attempt, but never mind - and I've booked my tickets to the airport for Spain in September. (Well, most of them. I haven't booked my ticket from Stansted back to Birmingham yet, but all the rest are done.) Now, I should probably find some pjs and such for the weekend of JOY with loneraven and hathy_col, and go to bed.