Nanowrimo 2009 begins! Day 1...

The rain fell hard on the heathen plains. It was a cold rain, fat and heavy, soaking everything with doom and sorrow. The surrounding lands had given nothing but blisters and dust for over a month, and when the horns of battle finally rang out, the heavens shrouded themselves within a thick, grey shield and assaulted the earth with its icy weapons.

The ambiance of battle, once built of wave upon wave of challenges and shouting, the melody of swords against steel, and the percussion of rocks against stone, had at first dimmed into a foggy buzz in the back of the head, and now the rain had completely masked all sound. War had always been a fleshy sensation. The smells and sounds and sights were always the first casualties of mass conflict.

Pre-nano

Deborah was all hair and glasses and bracelets and perfume. Her mane was all curly frills, which defied gravity as if charged by a Tesla coil and which seemed to shimmer in color from an auburn brown to a lemon yellow. Her glasses were stylistic to a fault, with dark rims that were almost as thick as the lenses they held. A myriad of cheap plastic clattered from her elbows to her wrist as she stepped out of the bathroom door and reached down to zip up her pants. The stinging aroma of antiseptic flora followed her, and I knew from experience that this scent came from her armpits rather than the restroom interior.

"Practicing your aim?" I quipped, annoyed to find her exiting the mens' side of the unisex bathrooms.

"Go fuck yourself, Dilbert," she casually replied.

"Why don't you use the stalls in the other bathroom? They are so much nicer in the other room." I tried to sound casual, but the stress of the morning had me wound pretty tight.

"Go fuck yourself," she said again, then turned down the hall, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

I am waiting for Hot Bread to Cool.

I am up way way way too late.  There is bread in a bread machine that is done, but way way way too hot to touch.  I can prove that to you by showing you the red line across the tips of three of my fingers on my right hand:  it is the melted line of skin that shows the bread is Too Hot To Touch.

But those fingers will heal, and life goes on.  Bread goes on.  Skin goes on.  And you can let that life knock you down, or you can put your dukes up and fight it till the bitter, wonderful end.

Life is like bread, you know.  It's chock full of recipe-book crap, and grows until it's baked.  And then it's eaten, and all you are left with is crumbs.  Wait, wait.

Life is like crumbs I mean.  No, scratch that.  Life is like yeast, and as long as it's kept in a warm, safe place, it will continue to grow and rise and make things.  But the second you expose it to too much ultra-violet light, that yeast is up shit's creek.

Ah, screw it.  I am not a baker.

Blogs are dead (dying?) dead.

I am a selfish person.  I am not as good as a friend to all my friends as they are to me.  I do not visit them as I should.  I make big situations for myself that really aren't that big, and therefore always have an excuse not to go do something.  I am the stranger of a friend whom I always don't give much thought or time to.

I miss all my friends.  They are all terrific people, and I was lucky to be able to have dinners with them and phone conversations with them and play games with them and kill zombies with them and make music with them and do projects with them.

I have no point to this.  I'm just sayin.