Thursday, March 16, 2006

Me moo ma may, may mo ma mee

Right. Since there's no evidence of anyone reading this blog, it's time to go stir crazy. Only I can't think of anything to go crazy about. This is sort of a stream-of-consciousness sort of post. I'm hoping something interesting will come up in it soon. Sort of like the way I usually write, fnar fnar.

Reese Witherfork sent me a bunch of questions for an interview. She's a pretty entertaining lass. Writes some nice things about Clive Owen (can you write a bad thing?) and something I've since lost about that guy you know who you pretend not to fancy. Yeah, I know a few of those. It's like being 15 again.

Oh, crap, I forgot to send Nick a postcard. Oh well, postcards are largely pointless anyway. Really, I'm hoping he'll use it as a talking point with one of the hot guys he knows, like--hey, the one who went off skiing for a season! Or the one who actually lives about ten miles away!--and the hot guy'll go, "Oh yeah, really? Did I ever tell you how much I fancy her?" But I'll never know, because hey, I pretend not to fancy him too.

Well, in... ten and a half hours I'll be 24. I know I'm getting old though because until last week when Patrick asked me what I was doing for my birthday, I'd forgotten it was coming around. Also, when my parents asked me what I wanted and I said, "Money," they politely pointed out that I already owe them plenty of that. So my birthday present is writing that off. Well, until the next credit card bill, anyway.

End of the month, I'll find out how much money I've not made from Almost Human. What with the way the post works these days, reckon it'll be Easter by the time I get anything. Still, it's better than nothing. Maybe Playing with Matches will have sold some more since then. Maybe What Wizards Want will have, too, since it's out at the end of the month.

Nearly finished Baby Sham Faery Love, despite that I said I'd have it in by yesterday. Actually, thought I had pretty much finished it, and then I remembered about Ell's sister. And, you know, the plot. What's wrong with a plotless sexfest, anyway?

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