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Sunday, Blink. . .blink. . . Ow. Ow ow ow.
Instead, here I sit tapping out a journal entry for you folks. Don't ever tell me I don't love you. Re-reading NG's stuff was worth it, however -- he's one of the most powerful, poignant, sexy journalers I've ever read (which, in retrospect, is why I'm using him as the model for my erstwhile journaler Edward Blakely). Mr. Grinder's gone on to a weblog these days, little blips of interesting links and curmudgeonly commentary, and I'm grateful for them, but I do kinda miss the days when he'd post long, blackly funny entries on the latest idiocy at work, the British government, society at large, or the wonderful screeds about his long-distance love affair with his then-girlfriend and now-wife. That said, I'd rather have him happily married and posting short blurbs than unhappily single and generating long entries, no matter how entertaining, out of boredom and loneliness. There, that's my altruistic gesture for the day, so be grateful. {A pause for water, and an intimate encounter with my exercise tape} Phoo. It's amazing how leaping around like a deranged lemur for a half hour can actually make you feel much better. Endorphins are wonderful things, yes they are, and the sensation of dripping with sweat just makes me feel so incredibly virtuous. Now maybe I can get back to work on this piece and knock it out of the box by tomorrow morning.
Hum. Is it my imagination, or do I look like I'm related somehow to Arnold Vosloo in that picture up there? Something about the full lower lip and broad cheekbones is making me flash on His Arnoldness in THE MUMMY. Oh, well -- better Arnold than the guy who played Bennie.
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My
eyes hurt. No, that's an understatement -- my eyes feel like lightly
poached eggs that a diabetic cat has urinated upon (yes, it's a
dangling participle -- so sue me). I don't know if it's a result
of staring at this screen for so long (and I don't know why my eyes
would suddenly hurt now, after so many bloody hours where they were
simply fine), or if I'm coming down with something, or what. All
I know is that I critiqued a manuscript and a half for 
And
on a final note of weirdness. . .
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