I give up; don’t read this

I have about 60 pages left of Michelle Obama’s book, which I’m enjoying more than I thought I would, and which I think is probably going to generate a review here once I’m done with it.  I’ve been fucking around on Twitter for like an hour because I’m Going to Write A Blog Post Tonight and fucking around on Twitter is what I do when I’m waiting for my thoughts to gel enough to figure out what I’m writing about on any given evening.

I need to get the blog post written before I can read, because otherwise Not Blogging hangs over my head and distracts me.

Now, at some point, mentally healthy people realize “oh, blogging isn’t happening tonight,” and stop fucking around on Twitter and go do something that they’d rather be doing– like, say, reading a book I’d like to finish tonight, or playing Red Dead Redemption 2.

But apparently yr esteemed host is unable to do that tonight, so he’s just going to fuck around on Twitter until the blog post happens.

Even if the blog post is about fucking around on Twitter.

So maybe I can pick the book back up now.  Hey, I told you not to read this.  🙂

Oh man

Mojo_Jojo.jpgI had a dream last night about not being able to sleep, if you’re wondering how the last couple of days have gone.  I just haven’t had much to say lately; sorry about that.  On the plus side, I’m about halfway through Jade City by Fonda Lee and it is holy shitballs good, especially for a book that I bought effectively at random.

I was about to post a picture of Mojo Jojo that I just drew as penance for my silence, but my phone is in the other room, and oh god is that so far away.  So… uh… here’s an actual drawing of Mojo Jojo.

(Also, this is probably obvious, but those of you who have been around long enough to remember that I occasionally liveblog the SOTU: I won’t be watching. I can’t put up with that thing’s voice long enough to watch.  Sorry.)

Well, that happened

IMG_2206Today has been a singularly ridiculous day.  It started out well, with several cups of coffee from my new Prostetnic Publications mug, but I didn’t manage to get dressed and showered until nearly 4:00, having spent most of the previous four or five hours struggling profanely with Microsoft Word and trying to get the manuscript for BA Vol. 2 beaten into sufficient shape to be able to send it to my alpha readers without shame.  Once I accomplished that task and sent it off, I then broke my own rules and went right back to editing, and sent them another version of the document about an hour ago.  Part of this revision included eliminating every single semicolon in the entire book.  That took a while.

This is especially entertaining to me because the “How to Launch your New Book” post has seen a bit of a resurgence in interest in the last couple of days; I apparently got shared out by someone influential.   So, yeah, guys; follow as much of that as you see fit, because clearly don’t take my own advice.

Then, just now, it hit me that in order to send something somewhere I would have to sign a letter with my pen name’s name, rather than my own.  I have completely lost the skill of cursive handwriting other than my own name, so I needed nearly three pages of practice sheets much like the one above to get my “L. Siler” signature in a point where I didn’t feel like it looked like it was written by a two-year-old with a motor control deficiency.  I won’t tell you whether that’s one of the early sheets or a later one.  God help me if I ever really do a signing.

I have one more task to complete before I can leave this computer, so I’m going to go get to it so that I can spend at least a little time hanging out with my wife before this Sunday is completely wasted, and that one’s not a writing task, so hopefully I’ll be able to knock it out quickly.

Did you put pants on today?  How long did it take you?

Oh.  One more thing.  It’s connected to the book, but I’m not telling you how:

Azamoeg

All I want to do today

Here it is; this is the entire agenda:

  • Shower
  • Eat Something that Isn’t Garbage
  • Buy Pants and Socks
  • Write Fiction

That’s all.  Errythang.  But holy cats am I a smelly lump of undifferentiated lazy and achy right now– I slept like crap last night, but in that horrible way where the bed isn’t comfortable enough to allow sleep but that getting out of bed to, say, achieve ibuprofen– which I very badly needed for most of the wee morning hours– is simply too much to expect from any living human being.

I want to buy pants today; I suspect it may well be more of a challenge than I can handle to wear pants today.

Blargh.  At least I was smart enough to take the evening off from OtherJob last night.  And the party went quite well.  It’s responsible for my current half-human state, but it went well.  That’s gotta be worth something, right?

Speaking of lazy…

photoA friend of mine turned forty on Tuesday.  This is (I think) the first time this has happened, which is kinda weird.  I have friends who are forty or older, but this is the first example I can think of of a friend turning forty who was not yet forty when we started associating with each other.*

It makes me feel terribly old by proxy.  I’m not 40 yet, but I can sure as hell see it from here, and not in a Sarah-Palin-and-Russia sort of way, but an “across the goddamn street on a bright and sunny day” sort of way.

(Related, short anecdote: I got into an argument with my brother a couple of weeks about how old he was.  I was wrong– not because I didn’t remember how old he was, but because I didn’t remember how old was and I therefore did the math to arrive at his age incorrectly.  This is a true fucking story, I swear to God.  I was off by a solid year, and I think I’d managed to spend a couple of months thinking I was 38 rather than it being a one-time brainfart.)

Anyway.  Speaking of me being ancient, let’s talk about my latest life decision.  I’m sitting in it right now.  There’s a picture of it right there.  I have decided that the best move to make with my current life is to become an Old Man with a Recliner.  It is not literally “my” chair in the sense that I lay sole claim to it, but I’m starting to believe that it’s mine anyway.  My wife called it “Daddy’s Chair” to my son almost the very second he noticed it.  I’ve never owned a recliner before, but our couch is developing issues and we needed at least one new place for people to sit in the living room anyway, so I figured I may as well go Full Lazy.  Very soon I will start demanding that dinner be on the table when I get home and possibly learning how to snore.  Because that is what Old Men with Recliners do, right?  Sure.

I turned my phone on during my prep period (I got a prep today!) to discover that there was a two minute old voicemail from the delivery guys that they were sitting in my driveway wondering where the hell I was.  “Where I was” was at work, since the damn chair was supposed to be delivered on Saturday.  How do I know this?  Because I have a full time damn job, and my wife has a full time job, and why the hell would I schedule a delivery on Thursday during ISTEP week when I know damn well neither of us are going to be home?  I didn’t, that’s how, and I didn’t get the phone call yesterday to tell me when the delivery was supposed to be like they said I would either, because if I had than I would have rescheduled with those people.

I called the guy right back and was in the early stages of “this is not what was supposed to happen and frankly I’m pretty pissed about it even though I know it’s not specifically your fault” when I realized that I was having the conversation in an empty classroom because I didn’t have any students.  At which point I abruptly reversed direction and asked the guys if they minded waiting ten more minutes and raced home.  I sat in my chair for about a minute and a half before heading back to work and nearly fell asleep during that minute and a half.  That comfortable.

Further updates on my inevitable transformation to Recliner Guy will surely be posted as they happen, unless becoming Recliner Guy makes me too lazy to write any more.

(*) I’ll give it ten minutes until someone pops up on Facebook to point out how terribly wrong I am.