It’s rare, because normally I’m pretty bulletproof about that one aspect of my life. Doubt doesn’t usually enter into the equation. But last week’s loss of the TV pilot coupled with the still-no-news-on-the-novel front is, I think, startling my once stalwart confidence. Once, my confidence was a hulking bear, and now it’s a knock-kneed fawn who spooks with every cracking branch or orbiting moth.
Painting With Shotguns
Today will certainly be a day of mourning. So, y’know, if you have any good news, send it my way. Hell, make some up. I’m not above delusion and invention. I’ll take whatever succor one can offer. Or, if anyone wants to invent work for me to perform? I’ll take it. Any professional boost? C’mon. You know you want to. Hire me to write your epitaph. Your menus. Your street signs. I’ll take anything.
The thing that gets me is the alarming amount of casual racism that pops up in the comments — okay, I’m not surprised at the existence of said racists, but I’m surprised at a) how racist they are and b) how ignorant they are of their own racism. Hey, if you’re going to be racist, at least own it. It’s not a good thing, but I appreciate self-awareness more than utter ignorance.
In other home news, things continue to be pretty dang awesome. Turns out, we have to watch out for deer even when driving in our own driveway: the other night, two fawns crossed right in front of us. Saw the Doe-Mom over in the woods waiting for them. This must be the same family we saw crossing the yard when we looked at the house a while back before we had purchased.
I have a new desk coming that was on clearance at Bon-Ton, but now it’s delayed and won’t get here till the end of the month, which leaves me on a wobbly old glass-top desk in a half-completed office. This is fine, I’ll manage, but I’m looking forward to getting this battlestation fully operational, y’know?
Anyway. I’m back! I’m just going to ignore the fecal stains on the curtains. I’m going to forget about the clump of hair (and part of a scalp) I found in the garbage disposal. I’ll just quietly take the keys back from you apes and say no more about the trio of dead hookers arranged around a poker table in the attic.