This past week I have:
:: committed follicular folly — I have a fringe. (I don't know if Americans would call it "bangs" or not, as I've never quite wrapped my head around what bangs, exactly, are.) It's one of those fringes that's too long to be worn as a fringe and has to be swept off to the side, but yes, fringe. It tickles and itches. It also draws compliments. It requires styling so it dries right. It also draws compliments. The eternal dilemma: looking good for others, or laziness.
:: eaten far too much chocolate. In one spectacular fall from grace, I actually managed to consume an entire red tulip white chocolate rabbit — 200g — in one day. Not my cleverest move.
:: been rather stunned by the question What about work? Don't you meet any nice men through work?.1
:: discovered a distinct lack of availability in oaten hay. How is the powerbunny supposed to maintain a trim figure if the pet stores insist on selling only lucerne hay?
I don't really like not having a novel to work on. There's all this extra space in my brain, and nothing quite fills it up right. I've been wrangling that short story in the meantime — just like the original draft, and every other attempted revision, it's taking longer than I thought possible. It also now bears little to no resemblance to the original version, which is a strange and slightly jagged thought. But sometimes, what you need to get the story started, isn't needed to make the story live.
- To fully appreciate this, you need to understand I work at an IVF clinic. The men I meet through work? Are trying to impregnate wives and girlfriends. [↩]