proustbot: (lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos)
Yesterday I did 9 pomodoros (in which I wrote morning pages, wrote ~300 words, synthesized my sacrament notes, and starting speeding through HC's letters).

Then I got suckered into a friendship obligation and spent $10 on a beer and mozzarella sticks.

Current Tally: $29

This morning I went into work to assist my sub-boss in stuffing envelopes, and then I came home and slumped around and did nothing productive. Blergh! I was supposed to go to a friendship obligation this evening, but I'm bailing in the hopes of actually getting some writing and/or laundry done instead. (Blergh!)

I also went through ao3's tag for Riverdale; there is a lot of not-very-good stuff on there. (And a couple of brilliant femslash stories.)

A story about Gosling: Lockwood reports that she tried to hang out with Gosling, but he's being too cool for school and the one time they got a drink, it mostly involved Gosling playing with his phone and ignoring her. Understandably, he's now dead to Lockwood. BUT the ironic twist is that Lockwood ran into him at a protest last weekend. Lockwood was with a friend and a friend-of-a-friend, who is a famous figure in our industry. As soon as Gosling recognized him, suddenly it was "LOCKWOOD, MY DEAREST FRIEND!"

Understandably, he is now double-dead to Lockwood.

A story about Veronica: J. vaguely referenced a recent injury, and I betrayed some knowledge of that injury. "How did you know about that?" she squealed. I tried to indicate C., but J. was already saying, "Oh, I know. It must have been Veronica. Because I told him about it, and then I asked if he was going to tell anyone, and he said he wouldn't tell anyone, but he would tell you, because he tells you everything." ("Okay," I managed to finally get in, "but, once again, he didn't tell me...")

He came in a little later and had a morose conversation with me. "I have to go," he said at last. "I'm too hyper." He was, as far as I could tell, being completely serious.
proustbot: (young and drinking in the park)
This morning is the morning that I am waking up in sleepy leisure in my childhood bed, rather than staggering awake in the dark and throwing all my shit in my backpack and running for the airport.

(That joy awaits next week.)

Let's do the year in review quiz, kids.

2016: Everyone bought champagne for mimosas, and no one brought orange juice, and there's a metaphor in there somewhere. )

oh burly

Sep. 27th, 2016 03:10 pm
proustbot: (lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos)
LOCKWOOD: "I feel like I've been a real bitch recently. But in my defense, I think my period is about to begin."

ME: "If it's any consolation -- I just started ovulating, and suddenly every dude I see seems Super Attractive. Up to and including the guy on the paper-towel packaging."

LOCKWOOD: "...good Simpsons reference, man."
proustbot: (liz)

ME: "Oh, yeah. That dude. I met him at an anthropology workshop. The workshop kind of confirmed the awfulness of current anthropology as a discipline."


[five minutes later]

ME: "What word can I use in this chapter that's like 'supernatural' but doesn't carry the extra Eurocentric garbage connotations of 'supernatural'?

VERONICA: "I feel like...there might be a whole discipline dedicated to solving this's on the tip of my tongue..."

ME: "If only I hadn't thrown that baby out with the bathwater!"


The Dude circulated his dissertation to his committee on Monday, following the most manic spurt of writing I've ever witnessed. (He claims to have written his conclusion in two hours.) Following that, we've witnessed various stages of euphoria and depression from the Dude, and we haven't been a particularly reassuring crowd. (When the Dude tells people about writing the conclusion in two hours, I think he is expecting a different reaction from the one that he inevitably receives.) But we went out drinking with a motley crew Tuesday night, so that the Dude could alternate between venting about academia and gushing about high-school-era hip-hop.

I have experienced many, many hours of venting in the last week, so whenever the Dude began to vent again (usually about how his advisor hadn't been over-the-moon when the Dude began their meeting that morning by talking about writing his conclusion in two hours), I could feel myself entering a disassociative fugue state. As an added bonus, the Dude had invited an acquaintance who has now made good in a way that doesn't affect me (insofar as I like her a lot but I don't need to impress her with my CV), but in a way that really mattered to other people in the booth with us. (Which is to say: I gave Lockwood some shit about her overly correct pronunciation of LaTeX and Lockwood reacted in such a way that suggested that I was HUMILIATING her in front of her IDOL.)

What I'm saying is: I spent a lot of time at that bar looking for an opportune moment to leave.

But I stuck around, and I'm glad I did, because eventually people peeled off, and it was just me and the Dude and Veronica and Betty, and someone said "thorough," and I said, "He's a good man, and thorough," and the Dude clutched his hands to his chest and asked if we could watch The Big Lebowski.

So we bought some Kahlua and take-out Korean food and tromped back to Veronica and Betty's house, and we watched The Big Lebowski. And at the end, as the credits rolled, Veronica and Betty and the Dude all sang along Townes Van Zandt's cover of "Dead Flowers."

And I thought, This is nice.
proustbot: (But it was she and not the sea we heard)
Wife A. decided to jaunt home for a few days, so I'm feeding her cat, Smallsie. Smallsie's name is ironic; he is a massive orange tabby cat. His shape can best be described as "bowling ball perched on tiny, dainty feet." He's not soft or squidgy at all; to pet Smallsie is to pet a dense, hard-packed body with an iron-like musculature.

So last night, after Ze Bar with Wife A. and the Dude and Lockwood (and after I dodged out on drinks with Thornton and Vidalia), I stumbled home to feed Smallsie. While he ate, I turned on You've Got Mail, and after ten minutes, Smallsie climbed up on my belly ("Oh, god," I groaned, "right on the breast...!") and proceeded to make bread on my brand-new T-shirt with tiny pricks of his dainty claws.

This morning, I drowsily repeated the process. We've now reached the part in You've Got Mail where Tom Hanks is about to discover Meg Ryan is the woman with whom he's been anonymously corresponding.

The Tombs of Atuan and All She Was Worth )


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