I may have mentioned at some point my tendency to come up with terrible plans?  I did not think that my two week writing detox was going to be one of said terrible plans.  I thought it was a, dare I say it, sensible idea which would give me a chance to swab out my apartment and interact with persons who are not, like me, reality-challenged.

But it's been ten days and I am going absolutely bats.  Without my preferred avenue for draining off my excess energy, I am forced to expend it in other, arguably less productive ways.  Within the past week, for example, I have:

  • Spent far too much time crayoning specimens of vampyroteuthis infernalis, the vampire squid from Hell;
  • Built a super-elaborate cat fort out of blankets, safety pins, and cardboard;
  • Lost my bra in a burger joint while I, acting in a consultative capacity, offered my wisdom on the subject of Alaskan orgies;
  • Driven myself mad attempting to figure out how a shark would wear a headband if he dressed up as Rambo for Halloween.








One Hredzak has kindly taken the time to repair to Amazon to pan my silly book about bondage pirates.  I am fortunately beyond the point in my life wherein I thought that silly books about bondage pirates were things that needed defending.  They sort of rise and fall on their own innate qualities.  Nor am I going to make a meal out of the fact that Hredzak (Monsieur? Madame? Let's say Monsieur, why not, let's throw a little testosterone around) that Monsieur Hredzak rendered judgment after reading the first chapter.  This be the Internets, and it be a wild frontier where you shouldn't sally out in public if you're not prepared to get your ego bruised.  

Nay nay, I am here for one purpose and one purpose alone.  A mission of mercy, one might say. Monsieur Hredzak, you need not be worried that I suffer in the least from a deficiency of boobs.

I assume that this assurance is necessary based on the following statement in the review:

Perhaps if this author was a big-boobed femme, I mighta enjoyed the kidnapped lead.

I confess that I do not see how an author's boobtaculosity or the lack of it really relates to an enjoyment of a book.  But if that's all that's bothering you, I can save the whole situation right now: I am, and have been from age twelve, rather upsettingly well-endowed.  Many and many a time I have wished that I had the ability to fit myself into a sweater without the assistance of a stretching apparatus and a buttered shoehorn, but such is not the case.  My knockers precede me into a room, in all their splendor.  I burst shirt buttons when I breathe too heavily.  I knock small children unconscious if I swing around too rapidly.  I have got boobs to spare, is what I'm trying to get at.  

Or are you upset that I didn't dwell enough on heaving bosoms and ripping bodices in the chapter you read?  In which case, guilty.  But I did include an actual honest-to-god ripped bodice in part three, out of respect for the fomula, if that makes any difference.  

Right, that's quite enough of that.  Time, I think, for a nice cup of tea.

Different strokes. 

PS- I don't have any drawings of boobs, I'm afraid.  Here, have a bunch of owls for no good reason whatsoever.



Well, that's THAT.  I don't know about you, but I emerge from the last stages of writing a book like I've just been on a week-long bender, wondering where my pants are and why I have a funny taste at the back of my mouth.  Now begins a two-week period of compulsory detox so that I can take care of life admin, reacquaint myself with that very excellent thing called food, and purge my body of any remaining poisons by drawing dinosaurs. A LOT.  After that, I believe there are some pirates who require attention.



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.