I would really, really like it if, after I shave, my face didn’t itch for the rest of the damn day. Agh.
That’s it. That’s the depths of my tortured soul.
I’m going to go drink Lapsang Souchong tea (which makes the house smell like a hickory fire), and read about the Azande people in Africa. And if I get that done soon enough, then I can start writing “What Lurks?”.
(actually, I need to write the thing for this weekend’s SF Signal post, but I know what that is already, and after that, it’ll be a short story. “What Lurks?” or “Dirty Window” depending on my mood. Or what music I’m listening to. Etc.)
This concludes this angst-ridden post. You may dry your eyes.