Pulling Two Thousand Teeth

Writing two thousand words was a lot like pulling two thousand teeth, today. I used twenty milligrams of promethazine hydrochloride last night, owing to pollen-related stuffiness, and I was still feeling the effects well into this afternoon. I tried to work through it at first, but after I had Arthur "thinging the things" instead of "covering the tubs," I decided a nap was in order. Besides, CBC 2's signal had gone all staticky. It was ruining my concentration. I marked my timesheet 8:19 AM - 9:49 AM, put the computer on standby, and went back to bed.

When I reawakened the computer, some hours later, it had gone all funny. The screen flickered for twenty seconds, and stayed dim for several minutes after that. Plus, the keyboard felt more sensitive than usual. I was getting a lot of multiple letters and unwanted ellipses. I think I'll need to have it looked at, once I get my credit card back.

Working on this novel, I've noticed that I tend to use dialogue to hurry along scenes I don't feel like describing. Rotten habit, that. I'll have to keep an eye out for chatterboxes, when I get to the second draft. This first draft isn't up to much, I'm afraid. It has too many bad jokes in it. It reminds me of Terry Pratchett, except without the fantasy angle. I never much liked Terry Pratchett. His prose always struck me as stilted, as if he was trying too hard to be clever.

Outside, the Cthulhu tree is the Cthulhu tree again. Fleshy and green, sort of thing. Wavingly tentacular. Over the winter, it was more of a--a really big artery tree. If someone doesn't prune it soon, it's going to stretch all the way across the street. Though, now that I think of it, it might be nice if more trees did that. You'd almost forget you were downtown, then. You'd be driving along leafy avenues, with dappled light skating over your windshield, and the skyscrapers blotted from sight. A taste of the pastoral, what?

Either that, or you'd park for an hour, and a million pigeons would shite on your hood.

I'm still not quite right in the head. I'm all muzzy. I need a cold shower, or a hot drink, or something. I'm not sure if it's the allergies or the pills, but I feel like I've got cotton wool up my sinuses. My eyelids feel swollen. My forehead hurts. I nearly just wrote "My forehead burst." Actually, I did write it, but I corrected it straightway. This entry is probably riddled with typos and malapropisms. I think I'll start using diphenhydramine hydrochloride, instead. (Although, isn't that more or less the same thing? There are too many allergy medications on the market. It's confusing. I never know what to buy.)

Oh. Speaking of not knowing what to buy, Stong's brought six litres of pineapple-orange punch this week. I didn't mean to order that. I didn't think I had ordered that. I hate pineapples (though the punch itself isn't as bad as I'd expected. It tastes more of oranges, and something else--something that isn't a pineapple or an orange. Pomelo, maybe. Pink grapefruit. I don't know. Something sharp and citrusy).

Finally, my left fourth-fingernail has almost grown back. I banged my hand in the door a couple of weeks ago, and most of it broke off. I had to wear a bandage for days. It was really annoying.

I think I'll write a chase scene, now. Anything I write today is going to be worthless. Might as well ruin something that has no value, to begin with. You can't sell a chase scene to the New Yorker. You can't even sell a chase scene to Dose. Nobody wants to read chase scenes, besides me.