So Baby, Kiss Me Like a Drug, Like a Respirator

Tomorrow (today!), Steve comes back, possibly freeing me to do substantially more/get up to speed. In the meantime, jack_yoniga suggests that I should ask all good people to come to the aid of my party and go vote over at StorySouth, where I am currently in the Top Ten of their "Best Short Fiction on the Web in 2006" thingie (for "Spectral Evidence"), natch. He's got the URL up at his LJ; I'd link it here, but I can barely format my own thoughts, because of that fucking stupid posting strip. So there!

'Night, all.

P.S.: Okay, I had to come back to fix this up using Steve's FTL computer anyhow, so I can't resist giving you guys a quick burst of Fifth Term project packages insanity. Here, only slightly edited, is the single worst script outline in the bunch (and this is the WHOLE outline, BTW):

"Its about a man named Mike and he is Stacey's the main character uncle and he raped and beaten Stacey when she was little...Stacey will go out on a date with a guy named Alex and at the end of the date they go inside Stacey's apartment and they can see there is blood everywhere...Mike will be in there and there is a fight scene. Stacey will kill Mike and to find out what happens you will have too pick me to show to you guys, so please pick me."

(In case this all seems sickly familiar, yes, this is the same person who wrote the infamous Canadian Film History exam review of Cuba 2, the one which ended: "...and then I had to go to bed." And this is, on average, about the same level of work I got from him throughout my courses. Poor bastard--I'm almost certain he probably has skills I just don't know about. And if he keeps on writing his own proposals, nobody else ever will, either.)

Been that sort of week, yeah, if you're wondering. And also, if you're wondering: Yes, I caved and got the "Plus" account, just so I could have more icons. Because I am lame.;)

And now I go to bed, for real.

The Hardest Part

There are hard choices ahead, and not all of them have to do with the fact that I'm already 1600 words behind on novel_in_90. At my last consultation with my trainer Dona, she measured and weighed me, and we discovered that I was exactly the same weight I'd been when I began this whole process (186 pounds); I've only lost one percent body fat, and my waist has actually increased by an inch (38--Dona claims anything over 35 is a health risk). Now, keep in mind that my chest- and arm-size had also increased, which she puts down to me building muscle on my back and biceps, but...it's still pretty annoying/depressing, because I work out hard six days a week, and I know my body is different. My cup-size seems different. I can fit into structured pants for the first time in ages. Etc.

The prognosis? I need to go on a diet.

I wasn't pleased, and it showed. The idea of having to track shit like portion control and revamp my entire fridge, along with every other frigging thing, makes me sick, tired and angry all at once. "Maybe you should think about why the idea of losing weight makes you angry," Dona said, which is probably good advice. But as I replied: "You know, it's been a pretty hard couple of weeks, so I don't really think I want to do that. How about I just make a plan, and stick to it?"

Dona: "That would work too."

So, all right. Find and re-read Mehmet Oz's You On a Diet, which Mom gave me for Christmas. Make a new list, do a new shop, which I have to do anyhow. Remember that the plan calls for 2500 calories a day, no food after 8:00 PM, and move forward. Along with, as I said, every other frigging thing.

Plus, Steve is back today, from what I hear is his final event for the next three months. So I also have to think about how I can best broach the subject of "I hope you're not going to spend the intervening time doing nothing but surfing, posting and obsessing, like last year. Because our household budget is dependent on two incomes, which means you need to find a job that you don't hate, and you need to treat the search for said job AS your job." I like the idea of him volunteering at Daycare, because it'd get him (and Cal) out of the house, in a situation which would make it impossible for him to just park Cal in the corner and forget about him, the way I suspect/fear he usually does. It'd give Steve the same sort of position of authority and responsibility that my job does me, and I truly believe things would improve for him if he had something to schedule his life around--hell, he might even start working out regularly again, modifying his habits along with me. Because if MY waist is a health issue, man, HIS is a fucking heart attack just waiting to happen, and I want him to live. I need him to live.

Cal, too, of course. Which should be obvious to Steve, at least as obvious as it is to me, but I truly fear it often isn't.