Last week felt like Monday up until sometime mid-Thursday. I’m interested to see what this particular seven-day stretch has planned.
I did have a nice weekend, though. It ended with me crouching in air-conditioned dimness, eating cold cereal and watching Prehistoric Planet. Attenborough is always a good time, but the real star of the show was the carnotaurus mating dance. For lo, I am a simple creature, of uncomplicated delights.
There’s still a heat advisory on until this evening. It’s good that we have the downstairs and the heat pump to give some relief–the PNW is not built for 90F and above–but my body is still loudly protesting all this bullshit. I’ll have to drag my corpse through Boxnoggin’s walkies no matter how the meatsack expresses its displeasure, but hitting the pavement for a solo shamble probably won’t happen.
Bother. After watching all the dinosaurs I’m feeling a lot better about my running form, and somewhat eager to imagine myself loping through prehistoric jungle instead of along more prosaic sidewalks. Screeching like a pterodactyl at anyone who attempts to stop me to ask for the time or a weather report is a highly entertaining prospect.
Either way, I get to spend the entire day getting some serious work in on Hell’s Acre, and I have the next scene on Sons of Ymre 2 all set up. The former will be mosaic, carefully arranging scattered bits, while the latter has a bit of fun to keep me going–a tentacle monster erupting from the heroine’s new bathroom. I just have to decide what flavor of tentacles–dry and gristly, or damp and rubbery? Choices, choices. At least the hero has his weaponry back, so we’re going to see some stabbing with real knives instead of the crowbar he was swinging.
…some days I really truly do love my job.
Also, Last week’s Tea with Lili is up on YouTube; it was about some of the recent ruckus in publishing and the frustrations (not to mention joys) of building characters. I am also kicking around doing some how-to self-publishing videos, but the prospect of video editing makes me want to curl into a little ball and give up metabolism, not to mention heartbeat, immediately. So we’ll see.
Boxnoggin has taken himself back to bed, but as soon as I slither off my office chair and make my way kitchenward he’ll be prancing attendance, wanting toast scraps and his walkies in that precise order. The joke is partly on him; I’ll be having cereal this morning, which means no toast crust. Yet the joke is also on me, for I’ll dig out a pittance of Cheerios to scatter in Boxnoggin’s bowl so he feels he’s received part of the pack’s kill.
Yes, I am a sucker. This is not news.
Stay chilly, my beloveds. The dog days are well upon us, and won’t be over for a while. Time to cue up some Florence + the Machine…