Xmas Wishes and Mental Betrayal

So, this is the last week before the Pig Launching Extravaganza which always taints the beginning of the year at my day job (the one we are always being admonished not to quit). (For those newcomers, I don’t want to say where I actually work and therefore curtail what I might otherwise say — people have gotten fired for openly maligning the Almighty Company on public media. So, I state that my job entails launching pigs from cannons.) We got the e-mail today and are looking at 10 hour days, 6 days a week for the first month and “as needed” for the ensuing months. It was expected.

However, Christmas draws nigh. I have consumed my weight in Hershey’s Candy Cane kisses and watched my Christmas movies — chief among them Disney’s CGI A Christmas Carol. If you want a traditional Xmas movie with horror overtones, this is it. An argument could be made for its rating to be bumped up to PG-13 (the end of the Ghost of Christmas Present’s scene alone…). It’s very true to the book, and these aren’t your cuddly Muppets (however awesome they are). Also included in my movie fest were Charlie Brown’s Christmas, Polar Express, The Grinch, and Nightmare Before Christmas (duh). And hopefully that deranged  horror version of Jack Frost…the horror movie about a possessed snowman. (I’m not even kidding. Look it up. And I don’t mean the one with Michael Keaton).

What all this should point to is that, in a very rare instance (almost unheard of), I was more excited for Xmas than Halloween. I must be terribly ill — I’m broke and don’t give a crap about presents, that cuddly family stuff does nothing for me, it’s going to be 80 degrees here on Christmas (and for almost a full week afterwards), and yet I’m as excited as a kid who sees a dozen large presents under the tree bearing his name.

Should be fun.

In other news, while getting ready to prepare to move, I was also assembling notes for the novella I was planning. Because my mind is a perverse, awful thing which delights in nothing more than my torture, I noticed two special calls for short stories (I suck at short form writing), and my mind switched. Totally jumped ship.

I thought it was some form of mental rebellion, a diversion tactic to avoid loading anything more onto my already burdened back and to cause me to get distracted and not write the novella yet. I tried to force myself to focus on what I originally planned to write and also to consider if I should write anything during this busy time. That never works. I dreamed about the stories.

Even more than that, if your mind is so intent on some other creative project or (for instance) one character seems to “want” more screen time, then you don’t fight it. It is probably supposed to be that way and doing anything else interrupts the flow.

I started on the first of the two short stories today. About three pages later, I’m still going strong — the most I’ve written since Winter’s Trial was published, sadly (and isn’t even that much). The bonus to this project is that even if it is rejected, I can still use it as part of a larger work I plan to do. Besides, I really like it so far, and that’s what counts for me. I’m not good at the short format, and my betrayer brain wants to add all sorts of extra bits and keeps fleshing everything out, but I could stand to learn the (incredibly difficult) short story format. So, if nothing else, this will be a valuable training exercise. Is that mental self-preservation in case I’m rejected? Probably, but there is truth to it, so I will let it slide.

I took a break from that to write this entry. Now, if I can keep Valkyrie Profile and Disgaea D2 (Laharl, Etna, and Flonne again…finally!) out of my clutching claws, I will be well down the road to my next project.

The other short story has quite some time before it’s due, so I may write it and let it sit, or go to the original novella I was ripped from by my traitorous mind.

Anyway, Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Happy Yule/whatever makes you happy and warm inside. May we all be a little more positive and gracious throughout the year (especially my evil ass). *cackle, throwing Xmas confetti*


I'm really sick of being wrong. Re: my upcoming novel (duh, what else do I talk about these days?)

My previous assertion that 145,000 words would end up being about 360 pages was both true and false. In a Word document with Times New Roman font at size 12, with double spaces between paragraphs, that's exactly what it is.

Poured into a .pdf file, 360 pages somehow turns into a mammoth 527 pages. This behemoth has been puffed out to the actual size it will be when put on sale -- I just confirmed with my editor.

Basically this. This man has clearly gone insane with the unmitigated size of my novel.

If I had any strength left, I would do my normal wailing that it isn't my fault. I think I'm over that now. It is what it is. I love it and I'm not ashamed anymore (though this may sound suspiciously like self-justification).

Going over it, the font is unbelievably huge. Being near-sighted, in the dark, and dangling upside down, one could still read this monster from across the room. During a severe earthquake. With one eye closed. I wouldn't be surprised if I were to see the dotted lines across the words, like it was given to a kindergartner to knuckle out.

One whole page of my novel. (Different text, of course. Let's not be silly).

It's bloated, as though someone threw an old dictionary into a puddle of water to watch it swell like some magical dinosaur terror-sponge.


Before and After.

My first thought was that someone is going to see the page count and flee immediately. There's nothing I can do about that, or my publisher's choice of font. Not a single word is different just because it has been poured into a .pdf file. It's still good, despite it's size. Or perhaps because of it. Luckily, it will be in eBook format first and Kindles (and other eReaders) have this handy feature to adjust the font.

There's no need to fret, mainly because there's nothing I can do about it now. It's long, but not the bloated monstrosity it will seem. I hope people will give it a chance.

*faint, drool*

I'm back! (For those who noticed that I have been MIA). What have I been doing? A great deal.

I hate to sound like a one-note hussy, but that's pretty much how my life has been. I had a birthday in there, which I will thank nobody to mention and which took some time to recover from. My friends insisted on doing things with me. What the hell?

Anyway, the majority of my time has been spent editing my novel. Yeah, about that.

First, I was very, very wrong about the time frame I was looking at. I got my edits back from (who else?) my editor along with a lot of paperwork. That has probably been the biggest shock to me, which is a little stupid if you think about it. I have had cover art request forms, marketing forms, the obligatory W-9, style guides, etc.

When someone tells you that the easy part of writing a novel is the actual writing of it, I assure you that it is absolutely the truth.

Another thing I didn't expect was the formatting and style rules that would be imposed on me. Since my novel will start its life as an eBook, some of the formatting rules are understandable -- certain things will, paraphrased from the words of my editor and her colleagues, give the code vertigo or make it want to drink  whiskey.

This involved omitting certain characters (symbols on the keyboard, not people in the story), no indents, double spacing after a paragraph, single spacing after sentences, etc. (I'm not sure if this is standard for every publisher, but if you're thinking of writing a novel, it's something to consider and research. I'm horrified that, during all my research, I neglected this *ahem* detail).

That was painful because I used the tab to indent. So, I had to go through about 350 pages and correct every single tab-indent in the document and double space between paragraphs. Since it was for formatting, it wasn't something I could finagle with Word and make pretty. It had to be done manually.

Now you may understand the title of this entry.

The only other thing that really bothered me was what seemed (and still does to an extent) an arbitrary rule from the backside of Satan himself. In a m/m (usually romance) novel it's important to always know who is doing what and who is speaking. Anyone can understand that (and it's not limited to m/m novels). However, this publisher has a rule regarding pronouns that essentially gave me cholera, shin splints, arthritis, Hanta, and scurvy. *cackle* (Please do not take that literally. Could you imagine me trying to hobble into the ER with those ailments? "Hel... *cough, fall, die*")

I don't know how much is proper to mention, so let's wrap this up by saying that the edits I got back -- as in the things my editor specifically thought needed altering, enhancing, or elucidating -- were relatively few. However, because of these aforementioned rules, I had to go over the entire novel, paragraph by paragraph, and make adjustments, whether it be to the tabs or to comply with the pronoun rule. (A moment of self defense here: I don't think the pronouns were out of control or that their references got lost, but I figured it was better to comply if it didn't change the style, tone, or timbre of the novel, which it didn't. And clarity is rarely a bad thing).

Did I learn something? Lord, yes. Will I use it in my further writing, even if I don't stay with this publisher forever? Absolutely. As much as I protest, do I see the literary wisdom in MOST of the changes? Yes.

However, as with any time I write, I fear I may have gone in and over-edited. Fixed things which weren't broken. So, I am requesting a second editing cycle (bless my editor, she's been so amazing through this process and hasn't tried to have me killed yet), and rest in the faith that there will be fewer changes to make and therefore the process will be easier the second time around.

To squeeze into the time frame I was given and to have time for that second editing round, I had to sleep, eat, wake, and dream about editing. (Yes, I had dreams of pronouns assaulting me, their sharp edges and lack of clarity making them like drawn ninjas with the power to annoy). I finished in what I thought was good time, despite my computer having an aneurysm on me during the home stretch and switching the colors of the tracked changes in the document.

I took today off, but I will have to get back on that proverbial diseased nag and get to the paperwork tomorrow. While I wait for my new round of edits I will edit the short story I might have mentioned in an earlier post.

This may be weird to say, but I consider deadlines challenges, and the whole editing process, this whole writing thing in general, has been a high unlike anything I have ever known. I don't want to stop it, and think I may do my best to stay in motion. Launch from this novel to that short story, into more edits, and from there into the next novel (not in the series, but in general). During all this I hope to post more here, and not just about that one-note trick I'm apparently not so bad at.

This summer, however, will be a challenge. This project will end, and it will be the culmination of a dream years in the making. Of course, then I have to face the idea of possible reviews and sales. Terror incarnate. If I don't have something to leap onto when that ends, I may fall into the cracks.

One dream ends and another starts on the day my first novel will be published -- August 21st.

Time, the Vile Betrayer

Okay, so it's a dramatic title.  I couldn't think of anything else.  *cape flapping* So, to update on the last post, just a few days after sending my previous post (The Long Road to Publication) out into the world to fend for itself, I received my first e-mail from my editor.  *angelic light, high note*  It seems that things have either sped up, or I was grossly mistaken as to the time frame I'm looking at.  I assume, as I am totally new to this, that it was the latter.

Maybe August was the last month my novel would potentially be peered at by an editor, and things got sped up.  Maybe August is when my novel is set to be released.  Maybe neither of these is the case. *shrug*  These are things I will have to ask.

Maybe...well, regardless of the maybes, the e-mail informed me that I'm looking at having my first round of edits to me in mid-May. Or sooner.  I accepted this time frame (you can bet your sweet ass I did!).

My biggest problem here is that I'm a procrastinator.  Wait!  Hear me out here!  I don't think that procrastinating on edits will be an issue for me.  I expect to have them done quite soon after being given them. This is literally and figuratively a dream come true.  I am not messing this up.

What I meant was *glaring at the imaginary people who would have jumped on my back* that during the sending out process last summer I was either too crestfallen or nervous to really focus on anything new.  I have no less than three more novel ideas racketing around in my head, and that's just in the short term.

A very dear friend gave me good advice - to put the "how soon and when" out of my mind, stop cheating myself out of the joy this should (and did) bring, and maybe write something else.  Some time ago I joined a particular author's Yahoo group and she is very accessible to her fans on it, as well as being very funny and very sweet to her devoted (some would say "rabid") fans.  While she was working on the edits for her last novel I asked her if she wrote something else in the meantime, or if she waited for one project to finish before doing more than notes on the next.  Her answer was what I expected - it's not realistic to wait for one project to be totally edited, done with, and set to be published.  (The inferred ending here was, "Unless you want to always be just a casual writer while slaving away at your day job."  She didn't say this, and maybe didn't even mean it, but it's what I took away from it.)

My problem?  I have about 10 pages of the new novel written down.  I found myself unable to work on it because I was too focused on what was happening with the last? current? one.  I recently figured that with edits not happening until August, I had plenty of time (the procrastinator's favorite phrase) to work on the new one, and with the upheavals in my life right now, things would have time to settle down and I'd have a lot written out by that time.


So, now I'm wondering - should I take the plunge and start on the next one?  Will the edits on my current project interfere with the almighty (and somewhat pretentious-sounding) creative process?  Should I edit the short story I mentioned previously and go with that?  Should I use the time between now and May to have an intervention on the amount of Netflix streaming that is consuming me?  Should I...should I...and more should I.

I'm not worried about the edits themselves.  I welcome the suggestions and help from a professional editor (or so I say now, bwahahaha!).  I want this novel to be the best it can be, and I'm sure everyone involved with this project at the publishing company feels the same.  (Even writing that makes me giddy.  And for those wondering, yes, all of this STILL feels like a dream I am constantly horrified I will wake from.)

Advice is always appreciated.  A cheap joke is, too.  A lot of the nervous, needy edge is gone from the writing process, but life does intrude - unpacking from my recent move, working, being social, reading, my Netflix intervention, prying my PS3 controller or Vita out of my own hands (damn you, blessed-but-life-eating Disgaea in all your incarnations), and trying to be active.

But now, because it's very late and I have tomorrow off, I think I will turn the lights off, relax, and scare the crap out of myself by watching The Descent.  Perhaps it will scare me into a revelation.  Time and procrastination be damned...for one more night.


I'm B-a-a-a-a-a-a-c-k!

What's that you say?  You hadn't noticed I was gone?  Jerkface.  *cackle* In all seriousness, it has been an awesome and hectic almost-month.  The major dominating force was the impending move, which is thankfully completed.  However, for the last two weeks before that move the cable and internet, which were under Stacey's name, were shut off.  I had no access to anything except on my phone, and while I imagine it was possible to blog from an iPhone, I'm wordy and my fingers would have cramped up by the third paragraph.

The move helped me rediscover one overwhelming fact about myself:

I. Hate. Moving!

I have so many books, DVDs, games, and other crap that the actual move was ghastly.  Heavy lifting, packing, cleaning, the horrid mess of cardboard boxes, the constant, deepening question of, "Why the hell am I keeping this?", and the subsequent urge to throw it all out--every last bit of it.  I went through it all.

Also, I went from an upstairs apartment to an upstairs apartment in the same complex.  Each moving trip consisted of a non-stop 2 trips up the stairs and 2 trips down.  We did it in two awful days.  Toward the end of the first day, my knees were killing me (common for runners and other jerks not used to walking up or down inclines frequently.  I walk a lot, but on a level sidewalk).  By the second day I was walking like a bowlegged ballerina in a cow's graceless plie because it used the insides of my knees instead of the outside.  I text my friends and told them that it was the worst move of the last 1,000 years--it was easier to move Napoleon's troops into deepest, wintery Russia.

I decided to go through all my old things instead of just packing the unused ones away.  I am convinced things come alive and move themselves and multiply in the night.  My dining "room" is like a Cardboard Wonderland full of books, blankets, old game system boxes, DVDs and Blu-rays, more books, and a few nights I swear I saw a gnarled goblin and two old Catwoman toys in a three way beat down over my last red velvet cookie.  It's like the 80s movie Dolls in here, but with fewer young Helena Bonham Carter lookalikes.

The clutter is driving me mad.  The workload I thought would last for all of January and only part of February looks like it will plunder deep into March's sanctity.  I have other stuff (very good stuff which will be related later) pending, which I'm dreadfully excited to get started on.  I have more that I want to do.  I'm stressed, busy, and very content.

The location I'm in is better, darker at night, and much, much quieter.  I get into bed and I'm asleep within 15 minutes, no matter what the time.  I don't hear someone coming into the apartment and have to repress an urge to vomit in irritation.  There is a feeling of peace and contentment here, Cardboard Wonderland or not.  I was lamenting last week about work the next day and this unbidden thought appeared in my head, "Yeah, but I get to come back HERE!"  I was instantly cheered up.

There is peace here, and I'm content.  I wasn't so sad to see the old apartment go as a whole, but I was very sad to see my old room go, where I spent 99% of my time.  If there was a home in that place, it was my room, but I constantly felt like I was being intruded upon.  This place is thus far perfect.  I'm happy here.  Problems will arise, I know that.  But right now it's everything I had hoped for.

Tomorrow I celebrate my three year anniversary with my significant other in a new place that I so far love.  Could be worse.

Phoning it In

January can bite my bag. I have been working so much that my hands hurt, my head wants to explode, and the light at the end of the tunnel to which I referred in an earlier post seems like a cruel joke—as though instead of freedom that light is actually the shine off the coagulated surface of a sewage dump.

Far be it from me to be pessimisti...*cackle*  I couldn't even write that shit.  Woo!  One point for trying!

Anyway, I can barely see beyond the end of this week, much less into 2014 when the real party begins in earnest.  But, there is a rest stop in a nearer sewage dump.

Stacey and I have come to an amiable plateau.  The fussy ends—bills, apartment deposit, even the selling to me of an unneeded couch for a more than reasonable price—all were done in a pleasant, happy manner.

One thing he said struck out at me, though.  He said that, after so long in this apartment, he was going to miss it.  He said it was the first place that felt like home since he was a kid.  I have never—and I mean that truly—felt like this was home.  It was nice, it was my first apartment, and it was a place to live.  It was a safe place mostly, and significant in that it taught me to be on my own (partially).  But I never felt like it was home.

The differences between Stacey and I grew starker as the conversation progressed.  He will be missing a home, and I can't scramble out fast enough so that I can get to a place that will potentially be home (until 2014, anyway).  I can't wait to kick this to the past and have it be a memory.  I'm not saying there won't be nostalgia or even that momentary sadness one feels when even the worst of situations is over—we miss those rays of sunshine during otherwise bleak times—but I can't pretend that I won't be excited, that the overwhelming feelings won't be relief and happiness.

*sigh*  Enough sentimental crap.  It gives me angina.

P.S. For those sick, deranged people (from the few who actually read this crap and don't already know), NO, Stacey and I are not moving away after a spoiled relationship.  Please, by the power of all the gods, don't ever think that.  We were just friends.  I'm more attracted to an anthill or the wind than I am to Stacey.  The very thought makes me ill.  The End.

Sweet mother of GOD!  Keep it away!

The Sour Chords of Heartstrings

So, as noted in my “Is it November Yet?” entry, there was a good possibility that some of my woes would be null and void in that magic month.  This, alas, did not happen. The long story shortened is that my pretentious, suddenly yogatasmic roommate, Stacey, was going to run away to another state to be a yoga instructor at a soon-to-be-built studio.  Regardless of instruction, talent, clientele, practice, and experience, he sincerely thought he was going to get in the door there.  I had my doubts about someone so green getting into an established branded studio and being a full time instructor, but as I am ignorant of the ways instructors are inducted, I said nothing.

November came and went, and it was revealed that the construction of the yoga studio wouldn’t be completed.  I told our apartment manager that I may not need a one bedroom just yet.  December came and the story was the same.  By then, there was no point trying to transfer, so I decided to stay in the two bedroom until the end of our lease in January.

In that time, the long term manager of our apartment complex left her post abruptly.  The one bedroom I was going to move into with my boyfriend was snatched out from under me because, though I turned in my 60 day notice, my roommate didn’t.  In addition to that, when my boyfriend put in an application, he had to do so without my information on there, and his income is below the desired amount.  The old apartment manager said she would handle it, but the new one had to obey the rules.

After about 5 visits, several texts, a talk, and a session where I was cussing horribly every day, I got Stacey to sign my resignation and handed it in.  By that time, apartment #1 was gone.  Great.  However, there was another one opening, so I applied for that one.  Adding horror to this, the people in apartment #1 rescinded their resignation.  The people who were going to get that one are ass out, because I have signed everything for apartment #2.  Sucks, but I have been here for several years and that loyalty won out.

The talk with Stacey didn’t go so well.  Apparently, the studio is being built with one less room, meaning half the sessions, half the instructors, and less than half the opportunity for Stacey to get in, being as new as he was.  There is another studio being built not too far away, but Stacey wants to ditch his car…in the interest of (partial) anonymity, I don’t want to reveal the to and from states, but let’s just say that the difference in climate, transportation, and seasons is insurmountable.

Stacey has never been without a car, has never been in anything considered “real” weather and is totally unfamiliar with public transportation.  I am pessimistic as to his abilities to cope.  For those who have not experienced it, try doing a weekly shopping for groceries on the bus or on a bike.  Then add rain, snow, and wind—things Stacey is NOT used to being out in.  Or even seeing.  Good luck, kupo.

Reluctantly, Stacey has decided to stay put.  But, I’m outta here at the end of January.  I’m moving into a one bedroom with my boyfriend.  Can you imagine?  A place where I can be free—where I can sit in my own front room and watch TV or play my goddamned PS3 without fear that I will hear the worst sound in the world, worse by far than the cries of a baby, nails on a chalkboard, or the sound of a live Taylor Swift song—the sound of Stacey’s key in the front-fucking-door.

That’s when the heartstrings began waking up, jangling, and tuning themselves.  I felt so bad for Stacey—his ostentatious showboating, his plans, his reaching for a new life (forgetting that the old one would follow him), his hopes…they lay in tatters around him.  Adding to that, he will have no roommate in less than two months.  He doesn’t make friends easily, and of the three he has, two are in the state he planned to go to, and the third is violently allergic to his cat, KOS-MOS (no, that’s not her name, but she was named after a video game character, so I substituted).  He looked at me with Puss in Boots eyes, and I felt bad for him.

Friends and neighbors, I am here to tell you that I actually thought, “Well, I…I mean…I guess I could…if he needed it…”  Then my mind shut that sympathetic thought right the hell down.  Shut it down like a rat-infested hooker’s cootch parading around on church grounds.  Be miserable for another year?  Not enjoy my lovely TV or PS3?  Feel uncomfortable in my own home?  For another year?!  Fuck. Off. Troglodyte.

My friends tell me simply that Stacey has gotten himself into this situation.  They remind me that Stacey has tried to ditch out on our lease three or four times in our period as roommates.  I can’t fault him for wanting to pursue his newest dream, for reaching forward to something better.  I applaud his brave gesture, his guts, and his tenacity.

However, Stacey did the things anyone from Aesop to Confucius to the dumbest person you know would have warned him against: he put all his eggs in one basket, burned his bridges, and ran full force forward.  I can’t pick him up again and again, especially when I gave him five months of warning that, regardless of his actions, I was going on my way.  I haven’t needed him as a roommate for two or three years now, probably longer, and I’m done compromising my life to help him.  I also believe that familiarity breeds contempt and I hope our friendship can strengthen when we are no longer living together.  He has no place to go yet, but I know he’s looking, and though I feel for him, I won’t continue to be his crutch.  I felt bad and considered lending my helping hand, but…

…but then he continued to soil our comradeship.  To further sour the notes of my heartstrings’ harmonizing, Stacey has been the most annoying of roommates in this past week—leaving his laundry in the washer and/or dryer and going to work, frequently bringing over some guy with the timbre and vocal resonance of an air raid siren, watching movies loudly, caterwauling into the midnight hours, leaving the kitchen a mess, sprinkling and leaving copious amounts of carpet deodorizer so that when I get home the smell rapes my nostrils, and otherwise requesting a beating every moment he is in this apartment.

Enjoy your ashy bridges, ass-hat.

Blog Update 1 - 07/16/12

Normally I wouldn’t do an update (largely because I doubt anyone would actually care), but because developments have come about in all three of my blog entries in a very short time, I figured I’d share.  

1)    Update from entry titled: The Dangers of Crossing the Street

The offending driver continues to wave at me as if we are friends.  I do not wave back, not even with one finger.  I think part of the reason he remains unsuccessful in his quest for my blood is that now two others get off a different bus at the same time and cross the street with me almost every single day.  One of them is a very tall, beefy, pretty attractive black man.  He’s difficult to miss, even if you are hell bent on your left turn.  The other guy who rides this other bus is bordering on hot, but looks like an anachronistic John Travolta from Grease if he frequented the Jersey Shore.  And stole James Dean’s hair.  However, he was witness to the last near-run down, so I may be harsher on him than I should be.  In any case, if I weren’t so focused on my Running with the Light (a.k.a. The Great American Car Dodge), I might enjoy the view more.

My work friend finally talked to the wife of the He-Demon of Satan’s Chute who launches at me in his predatory van (whose vehicle I can only presume is from the same Infernal Factory that spat out Christine and the wretched 666-van which ran down Stephen King).  The wife’s response?  “Oh, I thought he stopped that.”  Bitch…WHAT?  Like it was an addiction for which he was seeking help and was thought to be doing better at avoiding.  Now this frizzy-haired whore has the nerve to give me dirty looks when she sees me in the hall.  Don’t make me “accidentally” open the break room refrigerator on your face.

My “never-really-gonna-happen” crap talking aside, the good news is that the Van Assassin has apparently accepted a position in another state, and will be transferring at the end of the month.

I may get through this ordeal unscathed.


2)Update from entry titled: Why I Stay in my Room

A friend of mine came from several hours away to visit me.  We will call her Beverly (only because I’m re-reading Stephen King’s It at the moment), unless she cares to be revealed.  She is my oldest friend (in the age of our friendship, not because she’s Methuselah-ette) and very dear to me.  My roommate, Stacey, also knows her and was at one time fairly good friends with her.  She and my, uh, “friend”, Giuseppe (who is Mexican, not Italian, but the fake name fits for reasons too boring to reveal) and I were in the front room.

I understand it’s Stacey’s apartment too, but he always thinks he can and should come out and hang out with me and my friends, thinking they all want nothing more than to hang with HIM, and that I am only the insignificant connector.  Whatever.

As the three of us were watching copious amounts of South Park, Stacey came out, stood on one foot, and lifted his arms as though he were working out with invisible dumbbells.  We ignored him.  He took a step closer to the TV and did it again.  We ignored him.  Step closer, repeat.  Ignore.  So, he sat on the ground and tried to do the splits.  He stretched his hamstrings.  He stretched his arms.  Ignore.  Ignore.  Ignore.  He inched toward the TV and did the splits again.  Ignore.  Finally he got up and went to his room.  Boo hoo, Stacey.

When Giuseppe, Beverly, and I decided we wanted ice cream, Stacey eventually came back out wearing jeans, saying he would drive us so my friends wouldn’t lose their precious parking spots on the street.  Very nice of him.

Then came the Attention Wail.  “Uuuuuugh!  My pants are SO loose on me now!  I NEEEEEED to get a belt!”  Beverly looked at him and threw him a bone.  “You look good.  How much weight have you lost?”  And it is an amazing achievement, and Stacey looks as good as he can.  It’s an admirable thing he’s done.  But it was like the proverbial fat kid with cake.  He was so happy he almost drooled into his own panties.  He told her and told her and told her some more how much he had lost, what he’s doing, how he’s eating, blah, blah, blah.

We left and came back and Stacey decided to stay out there with us.  He was all but doing back bends and vying for more attention, but not nearly as bad as before.  I thought, “Hmmmm, one compliment and he quiets down.  Is that the secret?”  But then the bitch in me, always near the surface, said, “Why the hell should I be irritated and pestered and corralled into forced compliments, solely for the sake of ending the eternal parade for attention?  Screw that!”  So, I was silent.  And silent I will remain.

Now, he texted me twice tonight (from the other room) to see if I wanted to go out and get something to eat with him.  I don’t feel my greatest (see update #3), so I declined.  Then he wanted to go get Yogurtland.  I declined again, telling him that I don’t feel well.  He said, “Ok, well let’s hang out when you feel better.  Lots has been going on and I wanted to reconnect and talk about everything and nothing.”

As Stacey let slip to one of my best friends that he’s “sooooo OVER” living with me, I think I know what it’s about.  I think that, five months after I realized that it would be better for both of us if we no longer live together, that he has come to the same conclusion.  I had planned to tell him with about three months to go on the lease to give him enough time to get another place.  I believe that Stacey wants to beat me to it.  Or, or, or…I’m being hasty and neurotic and he really has noticed that I see him only as a joke and don’t want to live with him or have much to do with him and genuinely wants to reconnect.  I suspect it’s the former rather than the latter.

I seriously wish this was made up.  I wish I was exaggerating.  But I’m not.  Not even a little.  I swear to you that every single thing I have written here is 100% the truth.  And that makes it all the sadder.


3) Update from entry titled: Wedding Angina

For the actual outdoor, beach-side wedding, the temperature was a mere 81 degrees and the day was overcast.  It was a sweaty, sweet ceremony.  I actually got a little choked up, but hid it under my charming façade of cantankerousness and a calm face.  Even so, the wedding party was ready to slip right out of our suits from sweat and sheer desire.  The bride required a sweat rag at almost all times.  We took pictures on the beach and were off.

I typed up a whole update for this entry, up to and including the drunken debauchery (to which I briefly referred in Update #2), but really the event was too special to have just part of an entry.  Everything about it (other than the aforementioned sweat) was absolutely great.  I dreaded it, I hated the outfits, and I loathed the thought of pictures.  I whined and bitched, and complained, and went only because of an ill-represented sense of self sacrifice for a dear friend.  Martyrdom is not sexy, and I was a paragon of idiocy and beastly uncharitable-while-trying-to-be-nice lunacy.

The moment I saw my friend in her dress, that all fled.  Her, uh, bride, was just as radiant in her tux.

I thought I would be miserable.

Instead, I had almost illegal amounts of fun, got some ass and nipple action, took genuinely good pictures, had a cute straight guy try to pimp his cute gay brother out to me, danced with hot girls, and got to take part in the union of two very dear friends.

All in all, not a bad weekend.

Now I sit here watching old Shark Week episodes on Netflix, being sleepy, and dreading work tomorrow.  Maybe it will be as fun as the weeke…yeah, no.  Ewwe.  The very thought of bare asses in that place.  Ewwe.

Until next time.  Ewwe.