Dragging Asssssssssss

My activity in blogworld has been nil the past few days. No new posts, no surfing for the witty and the profane, no commenting on the witty and the profane. A sad week for everyone involved.

I have some good built-in excuses: actually doing work while at the office, trying to write fiction in the ever-dwindling space called "free time," and the first inklings of a virus that has felled many acquaintances with symptoms that have included "catatonic," "near death," and "too exhausted to get out of bed for bowel movements."


Get me rewrite

It's one of those dragging illnesses in which I find even the thought of each keystroke wearying. Fuckdladkdafnoi4ieoraevnakgrh3oierf........................

The Lazlo letters were the most fun I've had in this whole blogging endeavor (even if Wife reads them with a stone face and critical eye), but I've had no desire to continue them or even respond to the nice comments to them. I'm just too tired. I close my eyes at my desk and see beds with feather mattresses. I blast high-volume, no brain heavy metal music to stay awake. Inject the coffee into my veins, please. Please.

There are "real" writers who fashion something of fiction every single day (no bookfrauds they), a habit I usually associate with dead white men like Graham Greene or Kingsley Amis. Of course, there are living, non-white, female writers who hunker down every day, but I can't think of any right now. Maybe because Greene and Amis are Brits, they get automatic passes to the roll of Great Writers.

Will be 100% YAY EXCITED TO BE ALIVE AND WRITING THANK YOU FOR MY HEALTH by Friday, I hope.

I'm going to pass out now.