I really don’t have anything to write about. I typed the next chapter of Nice Ass, and deleted it, then typed it again, then deleted it. It’s just not easy to segue post-coital afterglow into a lengthy discussion on BDSM, so I’ll probably just delete all that conversation out and replace it with something like, “Wow, that was awesome. Is your tongue double-jointed?” (It’s not, mind you. I actually sprained it.)
The real problem, I guess, is that several readers are pulling for Diane, and I don’t want to turn her into a crazy bitch. But I also don’t want to bend the truth into something that’s completely false. Sorry to spoil it for you. She called me a couple of months ago, out of the blue, and I actually dropped my phone in fear when I saw her name show up. She’s that crazy.
Aside from writing the next chapter in my almost-fictional autobiography, I just haven’t a lot going on that I want to write about. I haven’t tried cooking anything new. (Although I did make cheeseburger macaroni Hamburger Helper last night, and I ate the ENTIRE thing. Good lord, what was I thinking?) I haven’t done anything around the house. I haven’t even cut my grass in two weeks.
I guess I’ve just been lazy. It’s not some depression-based laziness, just sloth. I think work has been entirely too busy, and it’s taken its toll on my home life. I don’t want to do anything once I get home.
I’ll do my best to resolve that this weekend. Friday night, I plan on meeting CSI Guy and Team Richardson at The Saucer for some drinks, and Saturday I’m going to the Dragon to geek-out and play some Warhammer. (Maybe I’ll paint some goblins tonight to get ready for that.)
And some time in-between, I’ll probably call that girl who makes me laugh and tell her I’m thinking about her. She’d like that. I’d probably like it, too.
I just MIGHT cut my grass, too.