(no subject)

Mosquito bites all up and down my legs, my
arms, my back. I am one big, twitching pile
of itchy. On first thought, going to an Indian
burial ground at night to lay on a blanket
and look at the stars seemed to be a good idea.
On second thought, I should have reminded myself
how tasty mosquitos seem to find my blood.

I've been finding it so hard to write, lately.
Even just minor journak entries. I can't write
anything for the online Kult game that the
Cheshire Cat runs, though I haraunged him for
many moons to post my character's intro. I've
signed up for a mailing list which the Orphan
runs, but I'm feeling quite intimidated by all
the other things which have been posted to it.
I can't even bring myself to work on the scraps
of short stories I have stored in my hard drive,
though they wail at me in the middle of the
night to finish their labour and bring them
into this world.

It's a capricious, precarious gift. And I'm not
so sure I'd ever be able to make a living at
doing it.

This bothers me, as writing is my breath and
blood. I don't think I'd want to continue
existence if I couldn't accomplish some form of
writing. But, while other people find it so
damn easy to put words on paper, or bytes on
a monitor...it's so very painful to me. Every
word, every nuance, every phrase is ripped from
my skull. It hurts. It's a constant struggle.

I can't pull substance from my dreams, because
I haven't been very adept at remembering them
lately. So, the Lovecraft route is obviously
out. It used to work well for me, but apparently
that door is temporarily closed.

I come up with great ideas constantly.
Maybe I should just try to find work as
a Muse for some poor struggling writer.

This is my world

Exchange between my mother and brother on the
phone two days ago:

him: I bought the Star-Bellied Sneetch a car.

her: A car?! What kind of car?

him: A 1963 Cadillac Fleetwood. It's a Hearse.

her: You bought her a Hearse?!

him: Yep.

her: Can you drive it?

him: Well...yeah. You can drive it.

her: You bought her a Hearse. How much was it?

him: Eight dollars. *laughs*

-----

He had bought me a little Hot Wheels Hearse.
Something which I've been looking for for a
very long time. It's still in its package,
in my room, on a shelf. I've yet to take it out
and play with it, though I want to.
My brother is keen.

God bless clear Caladryl. I've just gotten
done slathering it all over the bug bites on
my legs. Thank goodness it's clear. I don't
relish the idea of being covered in smeary
pink dots. Though, you may find those pink
dots to be legendary. Hah! I slay me...

I wonder where the Wee One has gotten to. I'd
invited her to go with the Engineer (formerly
known as the Goose, I've decided to change it
again) to the Torture Instruments Exhibition in
Atlantic City this evening. No hide, nor hair
of her so far. But, it is still very early. If
you're running on Goblin Town Time, which I'm
sure she is.