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My mother and PC went to Columbus to watch PC's youngest son graduate from boot camp, so for the past two days, I've been babysitting my furry sisters, Trixie and Sister.
( My Cuddlebug )
This is my baby. She's my cuddlebug and will spend hours lying in a contented heap as as I scratch her belly. If I stop, she'll give me an imperious glare, and if I don't hop to, then she'll prod my hand with her snout until I resume my ministrations.
This morning, she prodded me awake with the sun and bade me scratch, human, scratch, and so I did. At some point, I fell asleep, and when I awoke, it was to the bleary sight of fluffy dog buttocks pressed against my nose. I love her to bits, but I'll be glad when my bed is mine alone once more. It's hard to sleep soundly when you're terrified of squashing a teacup poodle in your sleep.
My ISP had a meltdown the day before yesterday and was out for ten hours. You never realize the extent of your Internet addiction until somebody cuts off the never-ending supply of technocrack. I spent an appalling amount of time staring fruitlessly at the computer screen and willing the Internet to life, time I could have used to read or write or simply rest my tortured eyeballs. I did eventually write for a few hours, pecking desultorily away on the abomination that is MS Works and pining for Google Docs, but not nearly as long as I could or should have done, would have done if I weren't so obsessed with my absence of Internet.
I did manage seven hundred words of fic, but not SPNfic. For some reason, I have to finish a fic where I start it. I can't write fic piecemeal and collate it into a single document, stitch it together like an expert seamstress. It has to be a single document or series of documents that each contain a chapter. I'm convinced that if I write the fic in scattered fragments strewn across multiple documents, then I'll ruin the story's flow. It's like starting to have mind-blowing sex in the bedroom, only to get up in mid-coitus, wander into the kitchen, make a sandwich, eat it over the sink while staring at yesterday's oatmeal, and finish having sex over the kitchen table. It's disjointed and ruins all the sweaty, sticky fun.
So, I worked on Part IV of Sprache instead. Now that I have access to Google, it's back to Sam and Dean and the boy from the closet.
( My Cuddlebug )
This is my baby. She's my cuddlebug and will spend hours lying in a contented heap as as I scratch her belly. If I stop, she'll give me an imperious glare, and if I don't hop to, then she'll prod my hand with her snout until I resume my ministrations.
This morning, she prodded me awake with the sun and bade me scratch, human, scratch, and so I did. At some point, I fell asleep, and when I awoke, it was to the bleary sight of fluffy dog buttocks pressed against my nose. I love her to bits, but I'll be glad when my bed is mine alone once more. It's hard to sleep soundly when you're terrified of squashing a teacup poodle in your sleep.
My ISP had a meltdown the day before yesterday and was out for ten hours. You never realize the extent of your Internet addiction until somebody cuts off the never-ending supply of technocrack. I spent an appalling amount of time staring fruitlessly at the computer screen and willing the Internet to life, time I could have used to read or write or simply rest my tortured eyeballs. I did eventually write for a few hours, pecking desultorily away on the abomination that is MS Works and pining for Google Docs, but not nearly as long as I could or should have done, would have done if I weren't so obsessed with my absence of Internet.
I did manage seven hundred words of fic, but not SPNfic. For some reason, I have to finish a fic where I start it. I can't write fic piecemeal and collate it into a single document, stitch it together like an expert seamstress. It has to be a single document or series of documents that each contain a chapter. I'm convinced that if I write the fic in scattered fragments strewn across multiple documents, then I'll ruin the story's flow. It's like starting to have mind-blowing sex in the bedroom, only to get up in mid-coitus, wander into the kitchen, make a sandwich, eat it over the sink while staring at yesterday's oatmeal, and finish having sex over the kitchen table. It's disjointed and ruins all the sweaty, sticky fun.
So, I worked on Part IV of Sprache instead. Now that I have access to Google, it's back to Sam and Dean and the boy from the closet.
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