SO.  I have this thing where every now and again my brain sort of flips around backwards, just kind of sloshes to and fro in my skull until everything is a bit frothy and weird in there, and in that state, my brain spawns plans which are, by any definition, deranged.  I mean like ten degrees off the nutty chart, right, like sixteen kinds of bananapants batshit, but of course my vision is skewed at the time so I'm all, oh hell yes it's brilliant brilliant BRILLIANT!  Like Wile E. Coyote buying an Acme Suckomatic or your standard mad scientist trying to conquer the world with flying robot hamsters, only the consequences are less cartoony. 
The person who usually slaps me out of it is, of course, my best friend Jules, who has a level of tolerance for bananapants wackery that must be experienced to be believed.  Sometimes, though- not often but it happens- I manage to brake before I go off the cliff and make a big mess that Julia will have to help me hoover up.
All this to say, I guess I am not going to go through with my genius plan to go cold turkey off duloxetine and just, like, tough out the withdrawal.  It's an appealling thought because I would like please to quit it with the psychotropic medications so I can be smug and superior about their non-importance in my life ("Gondor has no antidepressants!  Gondor needs no antidepressants!").  But the list of symptoms for abrupt discontinuation reads like a menu of terrible, everything from "electric shock sensations" to tinnitus and seizures, so, you know, maybe...just...not.  I've already experienced what happens if you miss your dose of magic pixie dust for a couple of days- for me, it means staggering around limp and half-asleep with a head full of molten lead, and nights of sharp-vivid-horrible dreams- but I thought that I might as well take the plunge, knuckle up, something something combination of metaphors, and just get it over with.
Lost my nerve this week and made the appointment to get the prescription renewed.  Le sigh; no knuckling up today.  On the plus side, hopefully this means that my head will remain sufficiently intact to finally get this bloody manuscript done.  So nobody send out the constabulary if there is no action from me for a while.  I will be locked in the BennyCave, popping the damn wretched pills and staring malevolently at a wall of text, making bad things happen to non-existent people, with Buckminster at my side wondering just what on earth she did to deserve me.
See you on the other side.  




Research topic list for Book the Next includes:


  • Toad licking.
  • Thermoelectric effects.
  • Canadian-made exploitation films circa the 1970's.
  • Lichtenberg figures.
  • Edible insects, with a focus on zophobas moria, more commonly known as the "superworm."
  • Depression.
  • Gospel singing.
  • Norweigan vocabulary.
  • Lesbian pulp fiction book titles.
  • Prison wine.


And this is why my parents will never read any of my books.

Buckminster, alias The Management, continues to be completely unimpressed with my frivolous behaviour when I could be playing "The Siberian Tiger and the Mystical Flying Doom-mice" with her.  She has entered her box to let me know just how disappointed she is.

The things I do for you.



And here we are.  My silly book about lesbian bondage pirates has sprung upon an unsuspecting world.

In other news, my sense of shame has now been missing for long enough to be proclaimed legally dead.  I plan to celebrate with crumpets.  Crumpets for all.

Crumpets and also book purchasing!  Yes yes yes.  You need more lesbian bondage pirates in your life, yes you do.



Another day, another dollar, and another lurid set of headlines about women being held in sexual captivity for more than a decade.  I hope what we all hope, of course: that the three young women in Cleveland receive all the time, help, space, understanding, and love they need to do whatever the hell they want to do with the rest of their lives.  But I think of all of the similar cases which are no doubt unfolding RIGHT NOW, all over the world, and I sit here grinding my teeth to powder.  You too?  Good, good.

If you upturned a city, any city, and whacked it on the backside, an appalling number of hideous secrets would tumble out of basements and rental apartments.  

I am not speculating here.  My day job (which is Lawyering, in case you missed my previous rants on the subject) involves a lot of snooping around into other people's business to prevent them from getting away with horrible things.  I can't go into details because of confidentiality and blood oaths and the fact that I'm secretly a member of an elite cadre of lawyer-ninjas sworn to eradicate the jerks of the world, but Jupiter, Vishnu, Mohammed, and Christ, do I ever see a lot of casual cruelty worked into the fabric of everyday life.

The worst things I see are usually directed at the old and the mentally ill.  If children were treated the way my colleagues and I see the mentally ill treated on a daily basis, there would be such a hue and cry that the seas would boil.

The unfortunate thing about Lawyering, besides the necessity of spending fourteen hours in a swivel chair at a stretch trying to decipher account statements from 1987, is that you are sworn to do things like uphold public order and keep the Queen's peace, instead of punching people in the face.  Sometimes the temptation is very, very strong.



Got out the last round of edits to Shell Game today, which meant I could finally get back to researching drought-tolerant crops and human mutations, in preparation for Mission the Next.  Of course, all this relentless productivity has me kind of chained to my computer for twelve hours at a time.

How does my roommate Buckminster, AKA The Management, feel about all this?

In a word, unimpressed.

I do not neglect my cat for the computer, I promise you.  One aggravated "Mew" from the other room and I am flying catwards to administer worship.  But Buckminster does not like waiting, not even for the length of time it takes for me to launch myself across the apartment at full speed.  And I can't just play with her before I start working, because all play-related activities (including laser tag and her all time favourite, "The Bengal Tiger and the Mystical Flying Doom-mice") happen only when Buckminster is good and ready.  Dangle a catnip toy in her face if her inner feline rhythms have not reached the play cycle, and she'll be all:


I have a feeling that I'm going to see "Can do better, must try harder" in my next performance review.