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Today was another grey, sodden day filled with grinding thunder and sizzling lightning. As I suspected, all ficcing is at a standstill. Tomorrow may give me a window of a few hours, but the weekend looks to be a wash. For those of you who care about SLS, be assured that I am working on it. At last count, SLS 52 stood at 11 pages. Unfortunately, weather and school are conspiring against me.
Does anyone know when the box to agree to the new TOS is going to pop up? I've been waiting for hours, and yet, no matter how often I log in, nothing happens. Have they postponed again? I'd like to get it over with.
The meteorologists are having paroxysms of furtive joy today because a tropical depression is developing near Honduras. The prospect of teeth-gnashing and bitter lamentation by people with no indoor plumbing and an annual income of three dollars and a child is clearly the height of eros. The weatherman's hand gestures as he outlined the coalescing mass of throbbing, tumescent low pressure were absolutely lewd. If he wasn't packing heat in those pleated khakis of his, I'll eat my tire rims.
I could have lived without this knowledge, however. No doubt the weatherman thinks he is keeping me abreast of the situation so that I'm not caught unawares, but he's really contributing to my premature demise by ratcheting up my blood pressure. Now, I'll lie awake at night, listening for the diabolical belchings of mutinous plumbing and counting the hours until the shrieking winds of God's fury come for to carry me home with a faceful of my neighbor's roof.
My gratitude knows no bouunds.
Shithead.
Does anyone know when the box to agree to the new TOS is going to pop up? I've been waiting for hours, and yet, no matter how often I log in, nothing happens. Have they postponed again? I'd like to get it over with.
The meteorologists are having paroxysms of furtive joy today because a tropical depression is developing near Honduras. The prospect of teeth-gnashing and bitter lamentation by people with no indoor plumbing and an annual income of three dollars and a child is clearly the height of eros. The weatherman's hand gestures as he outlined the coalescing mass of throbbing, tumescent low pressure were absolutely lewd. If he wasn't packing heat in those pleated khakis of his, I'll eat my tire rims.
I could have lived without this knowledge, however. No doubt the weatherman thinks he is keeping me abreast of the situation so that I'm not caught unawares, but he's really contributing to my premature demise by ratcheting up my blood pressure. Now, I'll lie awake at night, listening for the diabolical belchings of mutinous plumbing and counting the hours until the shrieking winds of God's fury come for to carry me home with a faceful of my neighbor's roof.
My gratitude knows no bouunds.
Shithead.