It's ten thirty in the morning, and I'm staring at two things:
- one of them is a short story I'm working on. I should actually be working, but since today's a national holiday (or since the national holiday tomorrow was moved to today, works either way), my mind is currently in Morocco. Unfortunately, this also has dire effects on the story, and I've added a sentence during the last six hours that I've been intimate with my laptop screen.
- the other is a work of art in the form of a canonical nod to male chauvinism everywhere. And I've been on that for the last twelve hours. Yes, I do not sleep. I am the Vampire Le Stud.
What frightens me is that I have nothing but oatmeal in my larder, along with powdered milk, coffee, and lemonade, and a box of yellow label tea that's going to run out in the next, oh say, eighteen hours. That, and the fact that I've been listening to The Marriage of Figaro for the past, oh, fourteen hours (I was playing Avernum 3 for the first ten whilst ctrl+tab-ing to read Least I Could Do after every four dead nephilim search parties).
I'm thinking major break down? Yes, yes indeedy. Now, to boil some more tea . . .