I voted! By mail. I’m a little disappointed, actually, because when I was small my parents would come home wearing “I VOTED!” stickers and I always wanted one, because, let’s face it, I should have been allowed to vote. Even at 8 I was brighter than a good swath of the voting public, and was devising a fair trade system where no one was permitted to allot obscene wealth while any other member of the community lived in want that I would later learn was remarkably similar to a concept called “Communism”.
So according to some people maybe I shouldn’t have been allowed to vote.
About half the ballot was small local elections for things like City Council Sub-Position B and Secretary to the Commissioner of Making Traffic Even Stupider with only two people running. After trying to do my civic duty and find out the positions and platforms of the Circuit Court Judge for Region 6 nominees and learning that some of them apparently haven’t discovered the internet, I felt bad arbitrarily picking one over the other, so I started writing in names of Doctor Who companions.
So if Donna Noble winds up on the Seattle City Council, my candidate won.
so I wore my caplet.
I should probably be really upset that my wardrobe allows me to make that distinction.
and other questions a reasonable human being should never have to ask
Does it count as a proper English breakfast if the beans are technically vegan chili? Really I’m even eating it in a pub, (so long as shoving bites in my face between orders can be considered “eating”.)
I went to sleep last night thinking that I would really, really like to find the unfinished Harry Potter fanfic shnibbles that I basically shed everywhere when I was thirteen and fourteen, because, haha, you know, I would like to know if I am completely insane for remembering them as fondly as I do. And then I dreamed all night about writing and processes and perseverance (and wandered around this really opulent, multi-storey carnival arcade that I find myself in every so often — I think it represents accomplishment or something, or maybe I just like blinking lights and gold filigree), and found myself sitting in the grass writing a song that, at the time, had very clear words, verses, and meter from start to finish. Although now the only bit I can recall is “It could have been fate”. Which now doesn’t seem to mesh with the tone of the song, which was more about regret and lost opportunities and some of that UGH WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE in the background and a bit annoying if I’m being perfectly candid, subconscious self.
Which brings me back around this: many moons ago, because at 13 it is not nearly so embarrassing to admit to your parents that you are writing weird stories about pre-canon bits of fantasy novels, my father suggested that I should do NaNoWriMo. And I tried to start, but the eighth grade was by and large a crap time and it’s quite hard to produce 50K words when you’ve got algebra to fail again, so it never happened. The story I wanted to tell is still clanking around in my brain, though, about 20 incarnations later, and I think, that since I plan to make November a month of self-imposed vagrancy and transient behaviour anyway, I should try to write it this year. Because bits of it have been planned and researched and drawn, but almost no story has ever been written. I think I want to do this.
Who’s got two thumbs and is gonna wear a motherfuckin’ cloak? AW YEAH.
It’s probably a side effect of plowing though Snuff in about 10 hours, but I really want Sam Vimes and John Watson to meet up for a cigar and a pint, respectively, and be world-worn career-addicted badass mofos together, and maybe vent about bloody ineffable finger-steepling bastards who’re fully too clever by half and at least Vetinari doesn’t have a brother….
We worked on the tattoo for a couple hours yesterday, and got the artichoke lion and Sergei the Pizza Man done, as well as some pedestals and shading. It’s really lovely; looks like a pencil drawing, and it’s going just where I want it. Rather than wrapping it in, you know, the standard paper towel-and-cling-film combo, she used Teraderm — that film bandage they put over IV sites. Which is quite cool, because 1) it doesn’t fall off in the night so my pillows get terrifying fluids all over them; I just leave it on for 24 hours to hang out and help with healing, and 2) it’s clear so I can stare lovingly at the new colour. :D Only now it’s kicked back enough fluid that it’s a bit, uh, soupy under there. But not nearly as red and swollen as the last one I got coloured.
Off to work — it’s raining, so also boredom — for the next nine hours.
I’m cooking in the dark. The light has burnt out and I’m cooking in the dark because no one can tell me where the lightbulbs are at.
- Bar manager: What's it like working in the service industry and not smoking?
- Me: I know what unicorns must feel like ALL THE TIME.
My living room looks like a bomb went off in a craft store. Everything is covered in knitting needles and embroidery floss shrapnel. I think my clippers are stuck in my hair. I must be stopped.