Like a giant angry testicle, THAT'S HOW UGLY.

Turns out, Madame Fearsome Baboon led my cranky pants astray, and left them with Mister Emo Bear.



And they are not cranky pants. They are MISERY WOE HOLY SHIT I FEEL SORRY FOR MYSELF KEEP AWAY FROM MY DESPAIR FUNK pants.

Admittedly, if I had such adorable bear paws, I'd stare at them all day too.

Facial Fortitude

Week Five of the beard growing attempt.



I did give myself a deadline of sorts, and that deadline has now been exceeded. By now, even my brother would have managed some low lying scrub on his upper lip. It's about all he can do, get some stringy little mo that makes him look like a dirty drug dealer. I have not achieved even this.

There are many skills, abilities and talents I possess. Some of them I am very good at. Some of them are even useful. Alas, I can only conclude that growing hair on my face is not an innate ability of mine.




But you should see my pubes! pits! legs!

The Tortured, Impoverised, Starving, Whinging, Self-Pitying Arteeeeest

(aka, Week Four of beard growing attempt)

Oh Porker, there you are, hello Porker.

OMG HI!

Are you okay, Porker, how you doing? Have I told you you're my best friend, Porker? I love you, Porker, no, seriously mate, I love you. You're my best friend. Only you understand me, Porker, only you.

OMG wow really that's so cool thanks so much wow!

I'm having a terrible time, Porker, I really am, just terrible, terrible.

OMG oh noes really that's terrible!

Badly timed bills, Porker. I could have made it through the fortnight on $300, but my health insurance bill turned up. Badly timed bills, Porker. Badly timed.

OMG that totally liek sux!

Truly it does, Porker.

OMG you should totally do something to cheer yourself up!

I am, Porker, I am. I'm going to see School of Seven Bells tonight, they're playing at the Corner.

OMG that's great wow!

...they don't start their set till 11.30.

OMG cool!

They don't finish their set till 12.30.

OMG wow!

Porker, that's after the trains have stopped. I'll have to take a taxi home.

OMG cool!

No that's not cool, Porker!

OMG really wow that sux bad what will you do?

Go anyway. I'll just cut the beans out of my diet and live on rice. It's fine. I'm okay, Porker. That's why we have credit cards, right? In case of emergencies (and vaccinations). But oh, that's not the end of it.

OMG no wai!

Eighty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-four words into this story, Porker, that's a long way in. That's good, Porker, real good. But it's a real bad place to make a mistake.

OMG really?

I made a terrible mistake, Porker, a terrible mistake. A mistake that renders at least the last five thousand words null and void and not covered by warranty, possibly even more than that, and makes utterly useless all that is to come that I've plotted out, and oh, Porker, what have I done? What have I done? What am I going to do?

OMG really what are you going to do?

The only thing I can do, Porker: keep drinking.

OMG wow yes that makes sense what happened to your face?

What?

OMG your face your face!



Oh, this? Yes. This five o'clock (six fifty-two, to be precise) shadow. Yes. This is what happens to artists who are caught up in the passion of the craft. They get hairy. And drunk.

OMG.

OMG, indeed, OMG.

We shall not be distracted by no freakin' mo.

Week Three of the beard growing saga.



I'M TRYING OKAY
THIS ISN'T AS EASY AS IT LOOKS

KAMEHAMEHAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

writerTess (is slighty more accomplished than beardyTess)

Week Two of beard growing.



This is very demoralising.

I'm consoling myself with the fact that I have written another 1500 words. This time we hunted about for the actual domed reading room, which involved getting lost in some Escher-inspired architecture, a mad library labyrinth that was quite unsettling. We did not encounter any cannibals. Possibly because the cannibals were as lost as we were.

When we not only found it, but found egress, we were confronted with ancient wooden tables with leather raised reading ledgers and wooden chairs that were more comfortable than the squishy wheelie chairs in the other reading room. I had myself a fine time writing epic panoramas. With explosions. (Note to self, find more words for 'boom'.) Only had to give my fellow explorer a couple of dirty looks for faffing about (he did take this excellent photo of the dome).

Yesterday was another engagement with the comedy festival. And I will never let Deb buy tickets ever again. Even if we did use kids as body shields. Which I have no ethical or moral issues with.

To those of you coming through from VanderMord's blog, I'm sorry, but he has completely misdirected you. There is nothing but bullshit here. Pure, high quality, complete and utter bullshit. With a side order of bullshit. Followed by horseshit on ice cream.

And some crapping on to boot.

Alright that's a slight exaggeration. Sometimes I post photos of my dog, too.

beardyTess (is not very beardy)

Week One of my beard-growing foray.



Clearly, I still have a lot to learn.

Today, I WROTE.

Myself and another masochist decided have a go at making a writing group. Not a submit-stories-and-meet-up-and-crit-them group, but a get-together-shut-up-and-write-then-go-have-cake group. We ventured deeper into the State Library than I have ever been, and whoa. Apparently desk space is prime real estate on a Saturday afternoon. We made rounds of the rear reading room, whispering and waiting for cannibals to eat us (well, I was waiting for cannibals, I don't think Andrew is much phased by cannibals), and eventually found a desk on the upper level. Always good to have a view to stare blankly at when you're between sentences.

And wrote.

Well. I read. According to Eddie's records, I haven't opened the document since November, which is a terrible, heart-wrenching thing. Has it been so long? I'm sorry, novel, I really am. But things came up. Did you know, in the last three months I've crit three books? That's a lot of critting. Let me confess to you; I love critting. The fascist dictator psychopath arsehole in me likes nothing better than to tear through your baby and point out everything you're doing wrong and then get all arrogant and obnoxious and tell you how to do it right. It's atrocious, I know. But I think you'll agree with me when I say it's better for me to get these fascist dictator psychopath arsehole urges out of my system by critting than by ruling the world, wouldn't you say?

Critting a novel is a huge timesink, however, and I'm constantly underestimating not just how much time it takes to do a thorough job, but how much space in my head it takes up. For the moment, the decks are clear, and oh me, oh my, the novel and I are going to have some hot keyboard-on-wordprocessor action.

After a quick catch up read (argh I don't remember where in the story I am or where the characters are or where they're going oh shit wait when did that happen I don't remember writing that) I got typing, and holy shit it's appalling. It's the sort of shit you don't find because it never sees the light of day. It's me figuring out what the hell is going on, there's absolutely no character in there because I haven't quite remembered how the characters work yet, but I got every one off the ground, and ended with the first shot being fired, and I'm SO EXCITED. 1500 words!

Eeeeeeeee!

And then Eddie's battery got low and we stopped.

There is still the matter of an uncooperative short story I must address, but that is...something strange and complicated that has nothing to do with writing. I've given myself leave to not think about it for a while. There are battles to be waged! (And action scenes to write, oh, yes, joy, ugh.)

Now I cannae wait till next Saturday, to do it again. Hopefully with additional masochists. Which will increase my chances of escaping the cannibals.

NINETEEN SECONDS TO COMPLY

I've decided to grow a beard.



Here is photographic evidence of my progress. This is one day of growth. I'm new at this, so I still have a lot to learn about growing beards. It may take a while before I get the hang of it. Hopefully I will get better at growing beards faster.

Also, there are now cyborg whales involved in the battle for the copy of WEIRD TALES locked in a sunken russian nuclear submarine. And appropriate defenses cropping up against them. You have 20 hours to take out the trained squid, haxxors, and cyborg whales and make a copy of this Most Fucking OARSUM magazine yours.