Goodbye Cruel Year
Next to last day of 2016 (thank God), and it snowed overnight, which may well be why my head feels like it's trying to kill me. I got maybe three hours of sleep, then woke up with this crunching, pounding sinus headache that still hasn't gone away; we don't have any more Tylenol Sinus, and Steve's going in to work today so I guess I'm going to have to ask him to get me some on his way. Cal's still asleep though, which is good--yesterday Steve Snr. came over and set his nook up again, giving him his Christmas present, a mixer through which everything can be run. So now he can play a video on his iPad, sing along using the microphone from an old karaoke machine, play accompaniment on his keyboard or his drum kit. All we have to do now is get him a mic stand and he'll really be off to the races.
The deadline I'm currently supposedly courting is fast approaching, but I feel like I can't do a goddamn thing with it--I feel blocked, stuck, fucked up beyond repair. The main slant of my work over the last little while, therefore, has lain in finally transferring my old fic from my equally old site (Segregation) to the AO3. Their template is wonderfully easy to use, which is good, because the stuff I'm on right now is the really, really old stuff--paragraph breaks in the middle of every fucking sentence, double slashes or asterisks used to imply italics, etc. It's truly painful to look at, and I'm definitely having to re-editing and -format as I go along just to make myself not look like a total moron. Soon enough I'll be into Oz, baby's first fandom, and that'll be fun fun FUN. Just thinking about trying to make "My Wife and My Dead Wife" look like anything other than a bunch of posts to a long-defunct email list sets my head hurting even more than it already does.
And what else, and what else: well, not much, I guess. Saw some movies, read some books. Watched my Facebook friends savage each other over ridiculous crap like whether or not people "should" mourn celebrities, or whether or not they're owed silence on subjects they aren't interested in. (Most recently, it's become "Why the fuck is everybody talking about Star Wars? An I the only person who doesn't care about Star Wars?" Why yes, you ARE; you're so special! Everybody thinks so, we're all just too hipsterish to admit it.) Every time I stumble across this sort of shit in the wild, the only thing I can ever hear in the back my head is Lily Tomlin bellowing: "WILL YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT THAT CAAAAAAAKE?!?!" People like shit you don't, news at eleven; in other news, scrolling exists. Thank you, fuck on through.
Okay, back to it.
The deadline I'm currently supposedly courting is fast approaching, but I feel like I can't do a goddamn thing with it--I feel blocked, stuck, fucked up beyond repair. The main slant of my work over the last little while, therefore, has lain in finally transferring my old fic from my equally old site (Segregation) to the AO3. Their template is wonderfully easy to use, which is good, because the stuff I'm on right now is the really, really old stuff--paragraph breaks in the middle of every fucking sentence, double slashes or asterisks used to imply italics, etc. It's truly painful to look at, and I'm definitely having to re-editing and -format as I go along just to make myself not look like a total moron. Soon enough I'll be into Oz, baby's first fandom, and that'll be fun fun FUN. Just thinking about trying to make "My Wife and My Dead Wife" look like anything other than a bunch of posts to a long-defunct email list sets my head hurting even more than it already does.
And what else, and what else: well, not much, I guess. Saw some movies, read some books. Watched my Facebook friends savage each other over ridiculous crap like whether or not people "should" mourn celebrities, or whether or not they're owed silence on subjects they aren't interested in. (Most recently, it's become "Why the fuck is everybody talking about Star Wars? An I the only person who doesn't care about Star Wars?" Why yes, you ARE; you're so special! Everybody thinks so, we're all just too hipsterish to admit it.) Every time I stumble across this sort of shit in the wild, the only thing I can ever hear in the back my head is Lily Tomlin bellowing: "WILL YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT THAT CAAAAAAAKE?!?!" People like shit you don't, news at eleven; in other news, scrolling exists. Thank you, fuck on through.
Okay, back to it.