The 35th Precinct

Today, I have achieved bupkus because I was lazy. It was easier to sit and read than to engage in productive activity, so I did. I started Danse Macabre for the fourth time. For those who've not read it, I highly recommend it. Annoying and excessive self-reference aside, King gives a wonderful insight into the underpinning psychology of the horror genre as seen in radio, television, movies, and books. Unfortunately, it only covers 1950 to 1980, the year it was first published, and I wish he'd write another for 1981 to the present. It would be interesting to see if he's noticed the same trends and tropes I have, or if I've just been smoking some really funky celluloid.

The weather has not helped my ficcing productivity. Last night, before I went to bed, the forecast promised evening thunderstorms for today. Evening-as in after noon, at least. When does it start raining? Eleven-thirty in the morning. I am awakened, in fact, by a thunderclap. Good morning, indeed. When does it stop? Seven o'clock. In other words, it was a complete reversal of the forecast. Clearly, their beloved Doppler radar needs a visit from the Maytag man.

When not hunkered in the bathroom, reading Danse Macabre in the flickering light of a halogen bulb on its last legs, I was wading through the latest spoogefest on I Wank. A wankee, like so many before her, has made the mistake of storming the castle in a vain attempt to defend her sullied honor. Among her list of excuses for her wankery were OCD, posting under the influence of marijuana, and a father with cancer. As one might imagine, none of these tried and true Internet crutches held up, and the resultant wankfest is at 850 comments and counting.

When will people learn that wading into a wank to combat the accusation of fappage only adds to the splooge? Sure when I was a fandom rookie, I made the mistake of pulling on the military hipwaders and getting my Tireless Rebutter on, but over time, I learned that the best offense was none at all and stopped replying in the communities. I did wank here in my journal, but LJ is like your bathroom, in my opinion, and if you can't tweak your nipples and sniff your pits in your bathroom, where can you?

If you say, "I don't care," once, I believe it. If you have to say it twice, I know you for a liar.

Besides, if the woman would stop replying, the mock monkeys would wander in search of fresher jizz...

In non-Internet news, Donkey Kong: Jungle Beat is a blast. Last night, I played until my shoulders throbbed, and though I know it's a bad idea, the compulsion to play tonight is strong. I want to tap the bongos and swing through the trees with the greatest of ease, collecting bananas and watching frogs explode.

If I'm smart, I'll watch Alone in the Dark instead. The last thing I need is a blown rotator cup.