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Well, the weather trashed my plans for a quiet evening at home. I had planned to spend it ficcing and watching TV, but no sooner had I gotten off the bus and gone inside than the thunderstorms came, and not the sedate, melancholy storms of easy listening, New Age tapes sold in stores that cater to incense-sniffing, mumu-and -bangle-wearing, freeze-dried flower children. Nay, nay. These were the Apocalypse Now of storms-blinding flares of lightning and thunder loud enough to rattle glass. Thus, rather than happily ficcing the night away, I spent the next three hours with my head between my knees, reacquainting myself with the smell of my own buttcrack. Thank God I'd showered.
It was a shame, too; the rest of the day had been so gorgeous. I went to see Madagascar with the roomie. Not the best animated film ever put to celluloid, but if you don't go in expecting Shakespeare, it's a fun ride. The psychotic penguins and sickeningly cute baby lemur more than made up for the morality tale writ large upon the screen. They did for me, anyway.
The smiling, maliciously gleeful weatherwoman joyfully informed us that we can expect more catastrophic thunderstorms tomorrow and for the foreseeable future, doing an orgasmic, pants-wetting rumba as she pointed out the swirling mass of doom, as well as what may become the the first hurricane, tropical storm, or tropical depression of the year. The idea of death, destruction, and misery must be sweet as the Lord's manna in her soulless mouth.
I have no desire to establish the career field of anal odor sommelier, so I'll likely ride out tomorrow's fun at the university library, where I will hear little and see less. Unfortunately, that means that the possibility for ficcage is slim, dammit. If people want to know why the output of SLS has ground to a halt, they need do no more than pull up Northern Florida on the Doppler.
I love this town and this state. It's my home, my bit of earth, but God, do I hate the weather.
It was a shame, too; the rest of the day had been so gorgeous. I went to see Madagascar with the roomie. Not the best animated film ever put to celluloid, but if you don't go in expecting Shakespeare, it's a fun ride. The psychotic penguins and sickeningly cute baby lemur more than made up for the morality tale writ large upon the screen. They did for me, anyway.
The smiling, maliciously gleeful weatherwoman joyfully informed us that we can expect more catastrophic thunderstorms tomorrow and for the foreseeable future, doing an orgasmic, pants-wetting rumba as she pointed out the swirling mass of doom, as well as what may become the the first hurricane, tropical storm, or tropical depression of the year. The idea of death, destruction, and misery must be sweet as the Lord's manna in her soulless mouth.
I have no desire to establish the career field of anal odor sommelier, so I'll likely ride out tomorrow's fun at the university library, where I will hear little and see less. Unfortunately, that means that the possibility for ficcage is slim, dammit. If people want to know why the output of SLS has ground to a halt, they need do no more than pull up Northern Florida on the Doppler.
I love this town and this state. It's my home, my bit of earth, but God, do I hate the weather.