Gone All That Bunchy Way

Stupid things I wrote today, while trying to find words for other things:

Arthur shined his knees with a purple chamois. It felt nice, if a little foolish.

Arthur felt like a biscuit cooked at too high a temperature for too short a time: soft in the middle, and crinkly round the edges.

Arthur hated to say the F word. It made him feel like Mike Tyson stuck in George W. Bush's body: full of aggression, but uncertain of how to express it.

After a while, I stopped messing around and wrote two thousand words that belonged together. It took me five hours and twenty-six minutes. The screen gave me a giant headache. These LCD screens are too bright. It's like staring into a supernova, except...except that it isn't. It's like staring into a--a....

I'm all out of words!
I'm so lost without them.
I know they were here,
It hasn't been so long.*

I read somewhere--I've forgotten where, now--that writing a novel is supposed to be like this. You start and finish on a surge of enthusiasm, but there's a long, uphill slog in the middle. A lot of folks get stuck there, and never reach the end. And even if you do, you've got to rewrite most of it. Who told me to do this, anyway? I'm going to rip their face off. No, their faces--there were several of the bastards. I'm going to have a string of faces taped to my wall, all manky and yellow and smelling like a deli counter.

I ought to be writing a horrorbook.

I ought to be on Grand Cayman, with my feet in the sea.

Today, on CBC 2, they played an excerpt from La Traviata, with some berk reading a book over it. I almost stamped on the radio. The only reason I didn't was that the snooze button uses up most of the stampable area. I'd have gone on my little rampage, then fifteen minutes later, I'd have been frightened out of my wits by the--by the nee-nee-nee-nee-nee! (It's happened before. I speak from bitter experience. Now that I think of it, I did feel a bit biscuity, then. My hair was standing up, and my heart was on the verge of liquefaction. Crispy on the edges, soft in the middle. Who knew?)

Nothing else happened today, but last night, I put a piece of chicken in the microwave for twenty minutes. It was supposed to be in for two, but I made a mistake. By the time I noticed, it was too late. I had to eat crackers instead.

I'm all up in a bunch, here. How long till the weekend?

* To the tune of I'm All Out of Love, of course.