for i have come to see you hung upon the gallows tree!

[ontology]

Sigh. I planned to clean the bedroom and sleep today (and possibly hang out / play music with Jonathan), but Jim, my manager, called this morning to ask if I could come in. Which is a good, really, because this is the second time now that someone hasn't been able to make their shift and they called me to fill in, and since I have done it both times, it means a) a larger paycheck next month, and b) that I am showing how much I actually want the job. But still -- I don't actually remember very much about today, especially near the end of my shift; I was starting to feel wobbly and odd. (Ergo I wrote it into my NaNo. Heh. You know, my NaNo begins in early November -- quite by accident, really! -- and is currently near Christmastime. When I started it was raining all the time, so that's reflected, and now it has been snowing nearly every day, so there is a great deal about snow and ice and being very cold now. There's not a lot of write-what-you-know available in this novel, but I sure do cram in what I can!) 

This is what going mad feels like: when you actually start arguing with the Edward Cullen poster that won't stop staring at you. I actually can't remember what I told him, even, because the argument was soon banished by the horrifying revelation that FYE sells lunchboxes with Edward Cullen's face on them. I looked like an emoticon, I was so weirded out. LUNCHBOXES. The food would all get his venom poisoning their system VAMPIRE FRUIT AGAIN OMG. Also it would be neatly organised and, like, colour-coded and stuff. (I then proceeded to, um. Well. I wrote, like, a page and a half of crazy, crazy Growing Up Cullen rambling when I should have been NaNoing. ...I'll post it later.)

At least I am caught up -- at last, now that the very last week is upon us -- and so do not have to wrench at least two thousand words out of myself every day. Also, the fact that this story is barely even begun is sort of terrifying. I will have to make some sort of goal for me to write by when November is finished -- just now I can't even think that far ahead, in terms of writing, or my brains will explode messily out of my eye sockets -- because, hey. I have over a hundred novel-sized pages written in a month. The last time I wrote this much of one story, especially in order? I think I may have been twelve?

But I have all of these other projects that I want to work on next month -- I can think of four short stories, offhand (three are fanfiction), that have been sitting around ninety-percent finished for months, and as I type, others are springing into my head and waving their hands about desperate for attention, poor things. Also I had a Very Splendid Idea for a short story that I want terribly to have a go at...

I sang a lot at work today, because I was trying not to fall asleep at my station, and because I had no customers, and hey, if I can't read or listen to music or write, why not sing? It occasionally even lures customers. Only I realised that every single song I was singing was -- kind of macabre? "The Prickly Bush", "The House Carpenter", "What Does the Deep Sea Say?" (okay, not macabre, but tragic), "Henry Lee" -- well, there was "Saucy Sailor", and that's all catchy and whatnot and only has jilting in, not any death. I tried to sing "Tam-Lin" but I haven't memorised all of the words yet, for some reason. (FOR SHAME.) (Hey, what, Led Zeppelin did a cover of "The Prickly Bush"? Crazy. I...kind of want every version ever recorded of this song, though, for sentimental reasons: Steeleye Span, especially this song and "All Around My Hat", are the soundtrack for my early childhood. I -- was not a very usual child. This is my parents' fault really.) It amuses me that most of the songs that I know all of the words to are traditional folk songs. I mean, look, they were made to be sung! The melodies just beckon to you, all right? (Anyway, for the record, I can sing most of "My Body Is A Cage", and, um -- some traditional American spirituals. *facepalm*) 

Today at the dinner table I got to expound upon reasons it is rarely good to marry a vampire. I...don't even know, guys. Speaking of which, you have no idea how much I need this t-shirt. We belong together! (Although the gun-with-silver-bullets irks me. THOSE DO NOT WORK ON VAMPIRES. Silver is alchemically connected to the moon, which is why it works on werewolves. Vampires have absolutely nothing to do with the lunar cycle. There is no good reason for silver bullets to harm them. I do, however, believe that vampires are harmed by cold iron.) 

...And before dinner I completed the final stage of my hair-dyeing, and about half my hair is a sort of blood-red now. It looks very striking, and is also quite cheering. There will be pictures when the remainder of the dye comes off my face.

Comments

[spockodile.livejournal.com]

"this is the second time now that someone hasn't been able to make their shift and they called me to fill in"

This says to me that you are probably on the upper end of the totem among your equally ranked coworkers. Especially now that you have responded by willingly helping them out.

"But I have all of these other projects that I want to work on next month"

Nano has a way of putting one back into wiritng mode. It gets the juices going. (I can has writing glands?)

Perhaps the guns with silver bullets are not meant to kill vampires directly. Perhaps the idea is to annoy them to death. (The annoyance would, of course, come from being shot at, but mostly from being attacked with silver. "If you're going to attack me, at least grant me the dignity of not treating me like a gorram lycan. Ugh. I'm leaving now.")