stillsostrange: (Eliot)
I would have fought. The cat, ever contrary, didn't want to.

I've lost many animals over the years, but this was the first time I had to say the word and choose the hour. I would have held onto any reasonable hope, but the vet didn't offer any. Siggy has shouted every day of her life since she could vocalize; yesterday she didn't speak at all.

My heart has been stone before, been steel, been still; it will be again. It is not now.

It happened last night. I woke up this morning and the house was so quiet. There was a cat on the foot of my bed. My housemate's cat, not mine.

I miss my cat.
stillsostrange: (Valkyrie Air)
Today I took a break from our move to help a friend move. I burned a lot of calories, sunburned my shoulders, and went home determined to give even more stuff to Goodwill so that I will never have that much stuff to move. Tomorrow I must meet a flooring person to see about fixing a water-damaged board in the living room, which is currently preventing us from filling a bookcase there. Wednesday I will borrow my mom's SUV to make what will hopefully be the last IKEA run, to obtain yet another bookcase and various other things. Friday the movers come to drag everything down from the top of this ziggurat and set fire to it in the parking lot relocate it.

In non-move-related news, the first few chapters of Dreams of Shreds & Tatters are now up on my website. A month and a half left till release day.
stillsostrange: (Brigitte)
So, last night Steven and I went to a deathrock night in San Antonio. We had a fabulous time. We also ended up leaving just as storm was blowing down from Austin. We hit about fifteen minutes of bad hail, which we spent sheltered under a gas station awning. Hail passed, and we went on. I eventually fell asleep in the passenger seat, as is my wont at 2:00 am.

I woke up to the sensation of the tires losing contact with the road. Steven cursing. The car spinning. My eyes never opened for this. I doubt it lasted more than a few heartbeats. Next came an impact. I shouted at this point--whether it was articulate or not I'm not sure. What I was thinking was mostly What the fuck?! Immediately after the first impact came a second. This one hurt. I yelled something again. A short time of confusion and annoyance followed, and then the car finally stopped moving and my eyes opened to rain and a wet divider and the remains of the passenger side airbag and the headlights of oncoming traffic. Luckily we had spun into a wide grassy median ditch, safely out of the way of any other cars. My right arm hurt like hell. ETA: I forgot a telling detail: the burning chemical smell of airbag propellant.

We sat there for a short span of time. Steven asked if I was okay; I said my arm hurt. At this point I thought to test the arm, and determined that it wasn't broken. I suspect I'd had a leg propped on the dashboard, so I was extra lucky that wasn't broken either. Northbound traffic kept moving.

Steven tried moving the car, but it was firmly wedged in the ditch. At this point I called our babysitter with what was probably a shocky warning that we would be late. This was, thanks to DST, at 3:30 am. After that... Reader, I updated Facebook. Yeah. Sorry. But then I thought to call roadside assistance! Steven talked to roadside assistance, and they eventually transferred him to 911. Several minutes and many cars has passed at this point, and finally one person stopped to ask if we were all right. By then sirens were inbound.

Cops and a fire truck showed up to determine that we were neither dead nor drunk nor on fire. I hadn't moved from the passenger seat at all, being a bit shocky, in pain, wedged in a ditch, and having foolishly decided that I didn't need my jacket that night. I got to sign waivers declining a trip to the hospital. The cops seemed a bit bemused by my torn fishnet and shiny glam goth pants. Eventually I crawled out of the car, and some nice officers put us in the back of their cruiser. They took us to the nearest sheltered spot, asked more questions, consulted about tow trucks. It was now 4:00 am and we were on the southernmost edge of Austin, so I decided not to wake up any of my friends. The cops called us a cab. The cab dispatcher said something that translated to "It's 4:00 am on the first Saturday of SXSW. Good fucking luck." And because of those conditions, the cops were getting a lot of calls at this point. So eventually they dropped us off at the nearest 24-hour fast food place and left us waiting for the cab.

We sat there drinking bad coffee listening to the absolute worst canned music selection ever for another hour. The cab was not coming. Steven called them again. Finally I broke down and called my parents, because someone had to relieve our poor babysitter. My parents returned the babysitter and stayed with the kids. At some point I finally checked a mirror and determined that my arm was friction-burned as well as bruised, and that my artfully torn fishnet top now had authentic battle damage.

6:00 am came. The cab did not. So finally my parents came to retrieve us. My father returned us to our house at 7:30 am. I wandered around in a daze, taking pictures of the fishnet pattern burned into my arm. I finally went to bed around 8:00, very gingerly.

Four hours later I got up to go with Steven to check on the car. It had been towed--to where, we're not entirely certain. Hopefully this will be sorted out quickly. Right now I'm upright only by the power of caffeine, and the fact that it hurts like hell to lie down. I did make one sensible attempt to go to an urgent care clinic, but the one that was open was out of network, so I'll call my doctor tomorrow. I did not go to work today.

I am very lucky, not only to not be hurt and to have not injured anyone else, but to have had people to call, people asking if I was okay, and people to email at 4:30 in the morning from the back of a police car.
stillsostrange: (Baroness)
And now a brief excerpt from writer-chat. Names redacted to protect the guilty and avoid spoilers:

Writer X: "If this write-ahead scene is correct, I am going to defeat the high fantasy threat in this high fantasy book by shooting it with a lot of bullets."

Writer Y: "That could work."

Writer X: "It'll totally work."

"I'm an asshole, though, for doing it."

Writer Z: "Better bullets than fuzzy colored lights."

Writer X: "This is true."

"Or the power of love."

Writer Y: "Just what I was going to say."

This week's Valkyrie Report is truncated due to illness.

Friday: Dayjob.
Saturday: Kayaking and surprise dayjob shift.
Sunday: Dayjob.
Monday: Yoga & climbing.
Tuesday: Hour with trainer.
Wednesday: sick
Thursday: sick
Friday: sick

Everything else this week has been truncated by illness as well. I had just started coloring my last sketch, but now I would rather not sneeze on it. All I've done for the past two days is lie in bed and read The Crown of Embers. And poke the internet, waiting for it to grow something interesting.
stillsostrange: (Teeth)
I am a medical marvel. Or at least a dental marvel. I went in today for a root canal, only to have the root canal expert look at my X-rays, poke my tooth, and say "That's some crazy shit*. Go to a specialist. Hang on, lemme call one." He then talked to said specialist on the phone for a while, showed him my X-rays, and reported back: "He can work on it, but there's no guarantee that would be a permanent solution."

Apparently my tooth has something like a hell mouth**, and is disintegrating from the inside out. It's a pit of horrors contained by a thin layer of enamel. No cavity or trauma caused this: I am just that fucking special.

Which is how, dear reader, I came to have an appointment on Thursday for an extraction, and eventually an implant. As exciting as having titanium screws in my skull sounds, the part in between where I spend several weeks toothless does not appeal to me. But the idea of getting a stopgap treatment only to have another abscess later--or worse, to have the tooth crack--appeals even less.

I should have asked if they could just give me a titanium jaw full of shark teeth, but my insurance probably won't cover 50% of that.

* Perhaps he said it more tactfully than that.

** You say root resorption, I say hell mouth. Let's call the whole thing off.
stillsostrange: (Elsa Bloodstone)
So, if you missed the update to yesterday's entry, my fears were confirmed. I had an abscess in my gum, which has been drained*. I have a root canal on Tuesday. This caused me to miss my father's birthday yesterday, as well as Exquisite Corpse, and will cause me to miss a chance to wear the worm suit for work on Wednesday. This makes me rather crabtastic.

On the upside, my head is no longer a pulsing mass of putrescence and pain this morning, so I can go to work today. This is a positive because a) I'm dressing up for Comic Book Day, and b) I'm seeing Avengers tonight, and I would feel guilty if I did so after skipping work. On the slightly less upside, by 9 in the morning on the 5th of May, it was already too damn hot for my costume. For fuck's sake, Texas. Throw me a bone here.

* Before this procedure:

Me: "There is no optimal outcome that involves a mouth full of pus."

Dentist: "You said it, not me."

Z is for...

May. 4th, 2012 10:17 am
stillsostrange: (Bleak)
The buzzing sound a dental drill makes. At least that is my fear. There is a Bad Thing happening in my mouth, and I will go to the dentist in a couple of hours. Of course, I'm terrified that I already know what it is. That word starts with A. And the A-word leads to the R-word. The R-word sometimes leads to the V-word, which means I would miss Comic Book Day tomorrow.

I'll be over here, keening and rocking for a bit.

ETA: Sometimes I hate being right.
stillsostrange: (Bleak)
I'm hormonally crabby and listless today, non-hormonally bummed, and my stomach hurts, which I'm not sure if I can blame on hormones or not. I need some brilliant inspiration for a novel proposal I'm working on and the inspirions are not colliding. And did I mention exhausted, crabby, and stomach hurty?

On the plus side, I took care of taxes today, and we're actually getting a refund this year. Also, I have mint tea, and it's [ profile] matociquala's marmot book day.

If I strapped kittens to a hot water bottle, would that help my stomach?

ETA: My depression-brain is often a ridiculous beast. It tried to weep and moan because we had no Moroccan mint tea. How would we ever treat this terrible stomach ache? Oh noes. Oh woes. Then my functional brain said: We have green tea; we have mint tea; does it really matter that we don't have a box of tea labeled Moroccan mint? The answer is, no, it doesn't. And having combined two different teas to produce the platonic ideal of green mint tea, the stomach ache has been treated. I may still have 99 three problems, but that is no longer one of them.
stillsostrange: (Byakhee)
Oh, November. My love-hate relationship with you and wordcount continues. But since it's been a while since I had a word meter...

Dreams of Shreds & Tatters (until someone comes up with a better title)

1448 / 80000 words. 2% done!

That is all of the first scene rewritten. Now it has dialogue, and characterization, and foreshadowing, and people doing things other than sitting on couches. Amazing, I know. The next scene is pretty solid as is, except for bad dialogue. After that the heavy lifting starts.
stillsostrange: (Stomp)
A meme via [ profile] autopope

If I made Cinderella, the audience would immediately be looking for a body in the coach. -- Alfred Hitchcock, 1899 - 1980

If I wrote Cinderella, what would you immediately be looking for?

After a day of feeling listless and out of sorts and just-short-of-awful, I have finally realized that the culprit is allergies. Sadly, that won't give me my afternoon back.
stillsostrange: (Conscious)
All I wanted to do was paint the bedroom. That's it. I've painted other rooms in the house with reasonable ease and speed. Why would the bedroom be any different? I'm still not sure why, but different it certainly is. Some unholy combination of new paint color plus the awful original beige has led to the Hell of Paint. We worked on it yesterday, we worked on it for hours today, and we will be working on it again tomorrow. I had other projects to get done this week before [ profile] matociquala comes to visit, but those have fallen by the wayside.

If the next coat doesn't make it look nice, I'm saying fuck it and hanging lots of posters.

But! Tonight I'm abandoning home improvement to go see the Psychedelic Furs! I'm been trying to see the Furs for years, but something has always thwarted me. I have five hours to avoid thwartsome things and achieve concert victory.
stillsostrange: (Brigitte)
My head has become a hellmouth for the mucous dimension, and I'm a little woozy from cough syrup. My plan for today involves getting out of bed no longer than necessary to make soup and take a shower.

I've noticed some new readers on this journal. Please introduce yourselves, if you feel like it. I need some entertainment while I'm propped in bed all day. Also, if you have any questions about The Necromancer Chronicles, please ask.
stillsostrange: (Brigitte)
I had to have a cat euthanized tonight. Not one of my cats, but this doesn't make me feel a whole lot better.

I pulled out of the bookstore tonight to run errands, and immediately saw a cat lying in the road, moving. He didn't move when I hopped out, but was alert. He let me touch him, and then scoop him up and put him in the car. Luckily, there's an emergency clinic close to the store, so I headed there. At first he seemed so calm, but he finally got annoyed when I stopped to double-check directions, and I could see his back legs weren't functional. I was hoping it was only a broken leg, but when I took him into the clinic I could feel that something wasn't right.

It turned out his pelvis had been shattered, with nerve damage. The vet, who was very nice, was reluctant to recommend surgery, since even after an expensive reconstruction she couldn't give me good odds he'd ever have used his legs again. So I petted him and told him how nice he was and signed the form.

I know it's pretty amazing that I've lived to the age of 31 without having to sign that form before, or witness it done. I've had a long lucky streak with animals, of taking in strays with easily fixable problems, finding homes--or, in the case of the several who've died, of not having to make a decision about it.

He was a very nice cat. I'm glad he didn't die alone on a cold road, but that isn't really a lot of glad at all, in the end.
stillsostrange: (Wild roses)
Agora, while gorgeous, was so depressing I had to watch Unforgiven as a unicorn chaser.
stillsostrange: (Brigitte)
38,000 words into Kingdoms as of today. Hurray for forward motion. This thing is much less streamlined than the last two books, POV-wise. I hope it turns out okay at the end of the draft.

My thoughts on bullying are as angry and incoherent now as they were twenty years ago. Like [ profile] yuki_onna, I hesitate to use that word because it was never physical. It was scorn, rejection, mockery, from the ages of 9 through 16. It wasn't until after college that I could walk past a group of people laughing and not flinch, assuming they were laughing at me. The knowledge (delivered by the Schadenfreude-machine that is Facebook) that many of my "peers" who picked on me peaked at 16 and can barely spell now helps a little, but some days not nearly enough.

I'm a card-carrying misanthrope, and I come by it honestly. All I can hope for is to leave the world a little less miserable than I found it, and that often seems impossible.
stillsostrange: (Baroness)
I got stood up by my gaming group tonight, so in a fit of book-avoiding masochism I turned on G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra. Oh, reader. Why do I do these things?

The first two thirds of this movie weren't actually as bad as I'd expected. Chris Eccleston was as adorable as ever--with bonus Cobraspotting accent--proto-Cobra was remarkably competent, and there was a hot Destro/Baroness/Storm Shadow vibe going on. (I am an oldschool Destro/Baroness shipper, and normally nothing could fuck with that OTP, but for Byung-hun Lee I'll make an exception.) And Joseph Gordon-Levitt seemed to be having fun with his lines, which is all you can do in that situation.

But, oh, the horrible, awful, nogood backstory they slapped on the Baroness. The only thing worse than killing the bad girl is to "redeem" her in a way that removes all of her agency. I hope the writers can feel me force-choking them, wherever they are.

And goddamn it! I want Cobra Commander screaming "DESTRO!" That is what he does. I wonder if JGL would do that for me, if I ever meet him...

This affront to the Baroness and my childhood must be answered. It'll have to get in the queue with the other angry refutation novels I need to write.
stillsostrange: (Default)
Today I acquired a diagnosis of bronchitis, some totally useless azithromycin, and some promethazine. Fun times, fun times.

I'd been wondering all day why I was in such a vile mood. Then I realized that I haven't exercised or written in over a week, nor had coffee, nor anything remotely sugary and delicious. (I have lost weight on my deathbed, but it's probably all atrophying muscle.) To make matters worse, I keep seeing people blogging about The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. You'd better bring enough for the whole internet, is all I have to say.

15. Midway question! Tell us about a writer you admire, whether professional or not!

If you don't already know about [ profile] barbara_hambly, [ profile] greygirlbeast, or [ profile] matociquala, then what are you waiting for? Go start reading!

If we get to pick on not-yet-professional writers, then I haven't read nearly enough from either [ profile] ultharkitty or [ profile] fadeaccompli. What I have read has been funny, grisly, sad, and beautiful. Sometimes all at once, sometimes in turns.

(Yeah, I'm not crazy about the word "pimp" being used to mean "recommend", but I haven't come up with something clever enough to replace the tag with yet.)
stillsostrange: (Brigitte)
Never avert your eyes.


stillsostrange: (Default)

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