Thought Devices, Survival, and Romance (the Myth of)

I was having a chat to one of my (many) writer friends, who shared with me the following assumption as spouted by a non-creative person;

"Wow, to write every day you must really love writing!"

Which, upon hearing, gave me pause.

As another writer friend (there are so many of you, you're like rabbits!) noted, there is a tendency for non-creative types to romanticise it all. Which is probably true, but in this instance, beside the point.

It made me wonder, if I do not love writing, then how do I feel about it? It does not ask why I write, although the answer relies upon that question as well.

Love is not at all the right word. It is not incorrect, so much as inaccurate. The relation does not apply, like describing the taste of sausage as 'firetruck'. There are times I do love writing, but they're not often, and generally isolated incidents. Writing itself, I do not love.

I don't hate it either. Even when I'm sunk in revision rage. Even when I'm uninspired and don't know what I'm doing. Even when it takes me to a place I don't want to go. Even when I know all I've produced is drek and slurry and dessicated story abortions. Hate is merely the flip side of love, and as applicable as 'firetruck'.

Which sees me end up back at that eternal question: why do I write? Some people like chasing down that answer. I don't. I don't need to know why, because the why is entirely irrelevant. I have no great goals for my writing. There was a time I aimed at contracts with major publishing houses and awards, but those targets have long been discarded. I have to admit, once I've finished writing a story to my satisfaction, I lose interest in it entirely. What happens afterward, whether it be published or not, is not a process I have much emotion or ambition invested in. Publishing successes are pleasing, publishing failures are a pity, but they're only minor after shocks following in the wake of the mindquake the actual writing caused.

Another writing friend, after mulling over the question of why we write if we do not, in fact, love it, mused that it was almost an obsessive compulsive act, which I guess could be true of some writers. What really resonated with me, however, was the comment that writing made them feel like a better, more functional, person.

Writing makes me not want to kill myself quite so much.

Which is melodramatic to say the least.

But true.

I have never not written. Others may talk of when they started and how long they've been writing for. I never started. I simply never stopped. Writing has always been a part of my life, so integral to my existence that I frequently forget it is there, that it is something I should perhaps mention, that other people don't write.

As a result, I don't think my mind knows how to function in any other manner. It is conditioned to seek the story in all things, hardwired to put information in an order that makes the most narrative sense, programmed to put words beside other words and seek the right place to put the right beat to have the greatest impact.

It is not limited to fiction. I have decades of diaries and journals. I still keep a private diary, and in it are terrible, shameful things, all the things I could not say and so had no choice but to write out of my system. I'm still writing things out. I will never stop draining myself through words, because to stop would be to suffocate, and to suffocate would be to die.

Even writing such blog posts as this, the mere act of constructing sentences to form paragraphs to say what I mean, there is succor in this process. There is a temporary relief to be gained in occupying myself with seeking a precision of emotion, a clarity of purpose, a duality of meaning, an accuracy of structure, in these sentences. I can immerse myself in writing as with no other task. There is some small sanctuary to be found in the process, a retreating of all the voices that would swamp me, because I have control of this voice. Of my voice.

Writing is, I suppose, not something I choose to do, no more than I choose to have a forehead. It simply is.

Thus, I have come to the following conclusions:

Why I Write: N/A
How I Feel About Writing: Firetruck

For the record, I have no issue with my forehead either.

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Props! Silly Girl!

Last time, it took me a month to notice a kudos on one of my few short stories in recent publication. Because, I'm not paying attention that's just how I roll.

This time, it took me ten months to notice.

Because, I'm really not paying attention I roll far, I roll fast.

Regarding story selection for the Year's Best Australian Science Fiction & Fantasy Vol. 4, a mention of Daikaiju 3, which contained One Night On Tidal Rig #13, which I'll quote here so I can come back and read it when I've run out of marshmallows, ice cream, clean undies, etc etc etc.

The small press anthologies published in 2007 all have much to recommend them. Daikaiju! 2: Revenge of the Giant Monsters, and Daikaiju! 3: Giant Monsters vs the World, are sequels to 2005's Daikaiju!: Giant Monster Tales. As with the first volume, both new volumes were edited by Robert Hood and Robin Pen, and published by Agog! Press. These were the quirky, fun books of the year, with stories pitting giant monsters, both supernatural and other worldly, against society. The strongest stories by Tessa Kum and Chris McMahon were unfortunately both too long to reprint here. Both volumes are recommended.

"...too long..."

*weep*

Lovely to discover, though. That's the only mention I've seen of the story anywhere, and as far as mentions go, it's neat-o.

This Soylent Green looks suspiciously like a peanut butter sandwich.





Tastes like one too.

I EAT YOUR BANDWIDTH

I took myself to the Royal Botanical Gardens yesterday. Had a cheese and vegemite sandwich beneath a ridiculously enormous oak and listened to the bell birds, because I am a very cheap date.





















I can't tell you what any of those plants are, as I was too busy playing with my camera to take much note. Very lax of me.

At what point does the image stop being photography and start being manipulation? I've adjusted the light and colour balance on several of these, as the sun was playing silly buggers most of the day. While I am getting better at taking, first shot, the photo I wish to take, I'm never going to be serious enough to get an end result I like without some manipulation.

Or I could simply remember to take a damn tripod with me.

Food. Food. And, also? Food.

Flavour Enhancer 621

Since Mum's ordeal with bowel cancer, I've become understandably thingy about food. Not in any sort of rational or consistent fashion, I'll admit. I'll look at the ingredients list on a packet, and if there are too many numbers or items in there that I don't recognise, I'll put it back on the shelf. (Of course, if I have cravings or am simply not in the mood to fight with the grocery shopping, I'll just not look and willfully indulge in ignorance.)

My latest illogical decision was against MSG.

Now, I have no problem with MSG. No reaction to it at all. I was practically raised on the stuff, and if I stop eating it I'll probably go into some sort of withdrawal. This decision was not based on all the bad hype surrounding it, but rather, the fact that it is commonly listed in ingredients as 'Flavour Enhancer 621'. It's a number, so it has to go.

Unfortunately, once I decided on this, I discovered it's EVERYWHERE.

And by everywhere, I mean, everywhere. How am I going to live without noodles when all sauces and soup bases contain MSG? Augh?

I found some miso soup in the organic shop around the corner that is lacking, thankfully. It's going to be a slow hunt to find more alternate soup bases.

Stupid neurosis.



Butter

After a successful(ish) writing date yesterday, my fellow tortured artists and I tried out a new feeding hole. I'd noticed "WAFFLES!!!" in huge letters on a window in Melbourne Central earlier in the week. That jedi mind trick clearly works well.

Raganeau Crepes. I don't remember seeing any crepes on the menu, but there were certainly waffles. One of them was soaked in melted butter. Far too much melted butter. To the point where it floated, as butter does, and collected at the top of my skull and gave me a butter headache. A butter hangover, to be precise. I'm surprised it didn't ooze out my tear ducts.

It was a mistake, a glorious mistake. When enough time has passed and I've forgotten what a mistake it was, I'll go make that mistake again.



Communal

Dad decided he wanted to go out for dinner. Specifically, to a Japanese restaurant. I told Mum that was not an entirely wise idea. Dad is firmly grounded in the methods of communal Chinese eating: a variety of meat, vegie, soup and tofu dishes in the middle of the table, everyone getting what they want, when they want as the meal progresses. No serving spoons, just double-triple-quadruple dipped chopsticks (this is probably why my immune system is so ridiculously overpowered). And rice. Rice for everyone. Rice without saying. Rice is the foundation upon which all other food rests, it brings meaning to the meal, it doesn't even get mentioned in preparation because rice is rice is assumed is rice.

Japanese cooking can work like that, but generally doesn't. There's a different methodology to the preparation and presentation. While multiple dishes still feature, each person is generally granted their own portion. All meals are insular. There will be no fights for the last piece of chicken.

It doesn't matter how many times Dad encounters this, he is still surprised when the dishes don't come out prepared for sharing, and rice is not automatically served. He does not approve of this, not at all, and then confuses all the serving staff with his attempts to turn a Japanese meal into a Chinese meal featuring Japanese cooking.

In light of all the cultural hooha I've blogged about recently, I feel I should mention this. There are some cultural differences that are irreconcilable. Heh.

Smell the Goat

The Gin Palace is a small bar tucked away on Russell Place, off Little Collins Street. The entrance is quite discreet; one diamond sign with a border of muted lights over an unmarked door. The interior is haphazard pillars, multiple floor levels, odd nooks and corners, which makes it endlessly fascinating, bit like drinking in an Escher drawing. Mrs Bishop took me there before she escaped back to Thailand. She is fond of the décor, which is more than understandable. Enormous deep armchairs! Decadent couches! Cozy little alcove seating!

Being as neither of us are drinkers, the only sensible course of action was to have a cocktail each, on an empty stomach. Chrysanthanum Club, sour-tart and thick. Tulip Fix, sour-sweet and refreshing. Could not taste the alcohol in either. I'm in love with the name of "Luis Bunuel's 'Surrealist' martini", in which all ingredients and utensils are allegedly frozen for at least two days prior to creation. From the sound of it, it is frozen gin. With gin. And some gin poured over the top. And also, some gin. And once it has warmed up, is disgusting. Being just gin.

We risked ordering food. I wasn't expecting much, regardless of how slick the place was. $10 for a toasted chicken sandwich a $8 for a bowl of Parmesan crackers is a lot of money for bar food. At the time, they were flat out with Friday night fallout, and the only two staff on were overwhelmed, had given up all pretense of smooth professional service and were reduced to dumping drinks and fleeing before the glasses had settled. It took maybe an hour and a half for the sandwich to arrive, by which time it was far too late to use as a liquor pillow.

It was also the best toasted chicken sandwich I have ever had. Holy crap. Totally worth the wait, and even worth $10. Fabulous bread, perfectly crisped and warm, and the chicken was mixed with mayo, chives and lemon, and was appalling spectacular. I'd go back just for the sandwich, to be honest.

The fact that the crackers came out another half hour after the sandwich was perplexing at first. How long does it take to open the packet and pour them in a bowl? Not long. However, they weren't those sort of crackers. They were fresh-made and fresh-baked and came straight out of the oven, hot and stupefying.

It was a great evening, sitting in a cubby hole and generally giggling too much.

My partner in crime at work, who shares the office pod with me, was deeply envious of this excursion, and after realising that we've been in a Mon-Fri job for five months and have not had after work drinks to date, the only sensible course of action open to us was to go to the Gin Palace and have a cocktail each, on an empty stomach. Southside, basically a mojita, and very very strong. Whoops.

This time, I furthered my exploration of the bar, and went to the toilet.

Men and womens differentiated by gilt framed photos of Jack Nicholas and Shelley Duvall from The Shining, him doing his manic grin, her doing her terrified scream. Turned out, it was an appropriate warning. The toilets were clean, really freshly amazingly clean for a drinking hole, but oh me, oh my, the smell.

Did you dissect a rat in high school? Do you remember the smell that rose out of the innards? Think of that smell. But bigger. It smelled like someone had gut a goat in there. A big goat with bad eating habits and bad personal hygiene and bad badness to boot.

One person said hairdressers, specifically perming solution. Three out of four voted for the goat. If I may, I'd like to introduce this phrase into your terminology, for the next time you are in a social but work-related situation. When you need to excuse yourself, simply inform them that you are "going to smell the goat".

There was a lot of giggling involved here too, which got me thinking about the power of history. There are plenty of places around that memory has coloured with heavier meaning than I necessarily want. Connotations and associations that exist in public places which carry on despite your own personal earthquakes. I tend to return to such places and try to override them by creating other memories, and so strip them of their history. Usually it works, at least, to a point. Heavy memories have a contradictory habit of rising to the surface, but the layering of other times and other moments blunts their appearance. Some places I've reclaimed entirely.

Two for two the Gin Palace has been saturated with a damn good time. I wonder, is it possible to return and still have a good time? Expectations are now fully cocked and loaded. An okay time, and alright time, these would be layers working in the other direction. Possibly I should never return, and so despite being a public place, it will remain, in my private world, the perfect place to enjoy a drink, a comfy seat, and deliciously silly company.





As a totally unconnected tangent: has Melbourne been showing off her finest fogs lately, or did I fall into a game of Silent Hill? When I walk to the station in the morning I can see the shadows of power lines cutting through the haze of street lights, and I can't see the station at all. My hair is soaked from the stroll. When I'm finally within the city I cannot see it, all the towers and buildings are swallowed and sleeping. It's lovely.

I won, and I'm sorry

I've recognised a pattern in my writing arc. First drafts are exciting things, full of discovery and exploration and free of the onus to make things perfect. First drafts are great fun. I'm all for writing first drafts.

Finishing a first draft is not so fun, as it heralds the next stage in the process, namely: unbreaking the story I've laid out.

My goodness but I do revision rage like I've been doing ice for three days straight and then decided to snort dried chilli. I hate the story, and the story hates me. It's clawing my eyes out with irregular rhythms and logic flaws and continuity errors and motivational absences and thematic incontinence, and I'm slashing its guts out with a red pen, and every session we cut and cut and cut away at each other, until each of us is in a corner drinking and/or crying and waiting for the other to clean up the blood.

(This could be why I have so many first drafts...)

And then, sparklemagicmoment! The story unbreaks. And we love each other once again.

To a point.

It's exhausting (like sex). And when it works, immensely satisfying (not at all like sex).

I'm feeling pretty satisfied right now. This particular story put up an enormous fight. The first drafts - and there were a ridiculous three and a half of them - were about as fun something that really isn't fun and is actually quite excruciating. Not only did I have to navigate revision rage, but I had to deal with the fact that the subject itself was an emotional block I wasn't aware I had. The deadline meant I had to process twenty-seven years of suppressed "I am a freak poooor meeee!" in a couple of months, and find something to say about it, specifically, something small enough to fit in a short story, and then turn it into a short story that didn't suck.

I don't know if I managed the last point. I don't know if I managed the second last point, or the second point, or any of those points. To be honest, I don't care.

The story is sent. It may not be accepted. It may never be published, and I don't care. It feels right to me, and in this case, having merely completed it is an enormous triumph. I'm standing here on the field of victory, with the story dead at my feet, blood on my hands, and the knowledge that I could do it and I did do it.

Thank you, Gillian, for opening a can full of worms. The fight was worth it.




(Now no one ask me to write to a theme ever again.)

A photo I took on Operation: GTFO last year. The same need to up and go has been growing in my shoulder blades lately. The desire for spaces I don't know, soundscapes I don't know, air I don't know. A life I don't know.

I have many things to say, but, I have misplaced my voice. So I shall say nothing.

this war never ends she will never be defeated

I'm having some trouble with myself, there's a scream sitting in my ribs that I haven't let out but it shifts and stirs, I can feel it when I'm making a cup of tea at work, I can feel it watching the train pull into the station, I can feel it sitting here in the dark, imperceptibly it rises up my throat, and one day it will out, out, out.

To avoid this happening at an inopportune moment (ie, with an audience), I'm running dark. Email silence, blog silence, radio silence. Submarineasaurus invoked.

Placeholder

• [insert griping about the cold here]
• [insert absurd amusing thing witnessed in the streets here]
• [insert navel-gazing here]
• [insert random picture here]
• [insert more moaning about the cold here]
• [insert writerly stuff here]
• [insert tirade of your choice here]

For those of you who may also be in a rut, down, got the blues, in a funk, weary, SAD, depressed, I leave you this gift.

Spider Sex Violent But Effective

Typically, spider males deliver their genetic package via sperm that is deposited into a small web and manually inserted using a pair of appendages on their undersides known as pedipalps.

The sperm are then held in a receptacle between the ovipore and ovary known as a spermatheca until an egg is released.

However, the spermatheca is a "last in, first out" structure, so that if any further males inseminate a female, the last mate's sperm is the first in line to fertilise an egg.

Milan Rezic, an entomologist at the Crop Research Institute in Prague, has spotted a spider circumventing this problem by delivering sperm directly to the ovaries via holes that the males bore directly in the females' abdomens.

There is even footage of this occurring, but, pffft, spiders, man. I have no idea what's going on in there. Legs everywhere.

Vagina? Who needs a vagina when you can just DRILL HOLES STRAIGHT DOWN TO THE OVARIES YEEEHAAAAAW.

Combined with the Spiked Demon Penis Of Doom that seed beetles use, I do believe that we all, the human race as a whole, have a lot to be thankful for.

And so these things help me keep perspective, as I swallow this scream yet again.

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!

And Papa Bear Said

The encroaching cold isn't all bad. There is one side-effect of winter that I cannot complain about, that I adore and love and welcome with open arms and handcuffs in the hope it never leaves again.

Sleep.

The nights are so cold, my hibernation engine goes into overdrive. You have no idea. It's light speed, warp speed, ludicrous speed. I'm actually a bear, and my body listens to the signalling seasons and goes, "Right then! Time to get my coma on!" The sleep I sleep is incredible. Deep enough to drown in. My brain shuts down entirely, I know, because when I wake up I feel wonderful, so sated and rested and utterly blissed out. I reel about the day drunk on sleep, and can't wait to get home and do it again.

This does occasionally mean I miss my alarm, wake up four hours after I'm supposed to get up, and being very late for work. I must confess, though, that with sleep like that, I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

PSA

The last year broke my inner thermostat. That heat wave in February granted me all sorts of resistance to heat. Before, a thirty degree day would have been utter hell, now, well, that's not that hot, no big deal, barely notice it really.

Last winter really, really, really wrecked my cold immunity. I spent the whole winter without using the heater because of a electricity bill snafu, and it was miserable enough to leave me with a good amount of dread. Now the cold has returned, and I am a) still too scarred by the bill to turn the heater on and b) have a very good idea of how cold it gets in this flat and am just about gibbering in horror at the months ahead.

I hate the cold now. It gives rise to some half-remembered panic that I'd really like to not remember at all.

I shall buy woollen things (actually had four conversations today with people who were desperate to go buy gloves and scarves), new socks that don't have holes in them, another blanket for the bed, even use the heater now and then, but I feel I should warn you appropriately.

From here until spring, the content of this blog will mostly revolve around bitching about the cold.

Remove from your feeds as necessary.

I'm going to put my scarf of +10 cold resistance on now.

NOW I HAVE YELLOW FEVER AS WELL.

Cholera doesn't taste that bad, you know. They made a huge fuss about how it was going to taste awful, and gave me a lollipop, and made more fuss. It tasted a bit like salty lemonade. Kinda like it. The nurse told me I was a freak.

Apparently it's typhoid that does the wreckage - makes you feel like utter shyte and gives you a massively sore arm to boot. Not feeling too bad now. Yellow fever is also cheaper than typhoid. [insert sigh of relief here]

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Rabbit Hole

What a day! Melbourne flounced around in a great huff, throwing out her skirts and crying, "Winter! Winter! I shall give you Winter!" The wind is not yet armed, it carries no knives, but is still more than eager to slip cold fingers beneath coats and scarves. It's what my Mum calls a 'wild and woolly' day. And so I sally forth! An excellent day for an expedition, a perfect day to be swallowed.

I'd never been to the Hopetoun Tea Rooms before. Odd, I know. I've lived here how long, walked past them how many times? There, I met Mrs Bishop and we hid from Melbourne's weather tantrum. A huge pot of loose leaf tea, a baked potato, and welsh rarebit. I didn't know what welsh rarebit was, and read it as rabbit. Mrs Bishop informed me that it was not rabbit, but something with cheese. And mustard. Which was good enough for me. It was indeed something with cheese, and mustard, and was just spectacular. I need to find a recipe similar to what they served, and then when Melbourne has finished her flouncing and plunged into Winter proper, have a slumber party, and force everyone to sit around in flannel pyjamas, and eat welsh rarebit.

The tea rooms are green, and deep, not large, but the colours are deep, and small enough to be quiet and snug.

We went halves in a Portuguese tart. Mrs Bishop assured me I wasn't the only one having trouble with my short story, which gave me some odd peace of mind. Makes me think that Gillian was onto something huge and hidden when she chose that theme.

I'd never been in the Nicholas Building before. Odd, I know. I've lived here how long, walked past it how many times? Mrs Bishop wanted to visit Collected Works, a specialist bookstore that was, alas, not open on Sundays. It got us to the first floor, though, and what a fascinating little floor. A button shop. There's more, and we explored the second floor. More buttons? The Tuxedo Cat, but actually the pigment bar, showing German comedy. A kimono store that was also not open on Sundays. Tiles on the walls. Different tiles. New tiles. Smooth wooden banister and wrought iron. An internal old-fashioned elevator. Up another floor? Why not? Things changed gradually. We found an odd well in the building, a court yard that was not a court yard, accessed by the windows, a square shaft to the sky, with internal windows looking down.

One floor had blocked windows, with what looked like books piled chaotically against the glass on three sides. No, not books. Boxes?

Each floor changed just a little. Lighter doors, different wood, different tiles, different light. The wiring was wild and free. Not all the lights worked. We found The Museum of Electrical Philosophy, which must have had a motion sensor, as it came to life as we approached and peered through the mail slot at a white white room.

We found a door, oh, a door I would love to open, but nothing behind it will exceed the expectations of my imagination.



The note card reads 'nest architects'. I assume these tiles belong to them too.



So many artist studios, workshops, concealed spaces for strange things. They marked their various territories as only creative types can.



We stood for some time outside this door, wondering what organisation or individual had claimed this space and what they used the space for, with a name like that? Not, as it turns out, the end of the world. Not directly, at any rate.

Milliner, costumer designer, carpenter, graphic designer, painter, creator creator creator.

I went to the toilet in the gents. Ladies was nowhere to be seen.

We reached the floor on which the windows blocked by boxes. We found a door with a damaged mail slot. We looked inside.

This is where shoes come to die.



Boxes emptied and throw in lazy piles up against the windows and walls, the shoes in great piles on the floor, having lost their partners and just lying there. The smell of old shoes, old shoes that have never been worn, a strange unsettling smell. Some shelves, showing an effort at display, but still a mess, a garbage dump, a shoe grave yard.



And we fled.

I must return. With my big camera and tripod. The building is a wonderful alternate dimension. I want to catch the wear and tear and dust.

I'd never been to the Ian Potter Gallery, a different sort of art in a different sort of dimension. Odd, I know. How long have I lived here, how often have I walked past it? The Kirra Galleries sucked us in and bedazzled us with glass. So much beautiful amazing glass. I did not spend all my time staring at a wooden fish, nor did I spend any time talking myself out of a $100 wooden fish, no, not at all.

I'm not sure how to engage with the art gallery. The Indigenous section gave both of us some pause, as not all pieces were listed with explanations, and given the nature of indigenous art, that it is usually so laden with story and symbol, this seemed an inexplicable oversight.

Perhaps, though, the fault is partly with my own perceptions. I come to exhibitions from a museum point of view - to learn. Art, being art, does things differently.

I was particularly taken with the Shared Sky exhibition on the second floor. There was a piece there by Albrecht Dürer, whose work I'm quite fond of, which featured a great rendering of (what I think is) Cetus the whale. Cetus featured on another star map nearby, and neither of them depicted a whale. Cetus is somewhat more awesome than a whale, and whales are pretty damn awesome.

After outwitting the public transport system, I bid Mrs Bishop adieu, and took myself out of the city, got off a station early, and had Melbourne flounce around at my back as I walked home.

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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.

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