K Sublime

Fury.
I wish I could say this is some sort of righteous indignation, but I can't. It is the pettiest sort of fury, and I suppose one could call it irritation or disgust.

I have managed to spend very many moments with no mention of That Person, and now it seems that That Person has decided that the oil fire which terminated our whatever-it-was has burned low enough that fraternizing with one of my best friends is acceptable.

And of course it is. We're all adults here.

It's odd, quite often I felt quite old, but not tonight. I am okay with correspondence that doesn't concern me....but why doesn't it? That sounds self-important, I'm aware of that. I do blame the megalomania, but god damn!

I said I was writing this fucker book, and dammit....
Do you know that I have not sworn in a very long time? I feel scandalous with that title.
I have procrastinated my way right out of finishing that book in November. And December too--there are some financial matters which need my attention, post haste, and then there is the matter of the baby Jesus and all those shenanigans. So I am now looking to January, which I believe is named for the two faced Roman god of soul crushing.
Everything is just a little darker, a little colder, and a little suckier in January, and it's got about ten thousand holidayless days in it. And that is the time I shall finish my book.
And which book shall I finish?

A)The story about this chick and the Crawford boys, set in the early 1900s. The Crawford boys are neither cowboys nor thieves (well, maybe one is), but they end up on the run in the forest of the monster trees (um, Redwoods, not really monster trees). The chick figures heavily in all of this. There is love/hate/jealousy, etc. Much gnashing of teeth. Crisis ensues. I have not figured out how to get them out of the goddamn monster tree forest, which is why I got stuck.

B)The story about the thinly veiled Shah Rukh Khan character, who is a doctor into whose hospital comes a very mysterious woman who isn't what she seems. Or maybe SRK (called...um...not that) isn't what he seems. Anyway, it is more of a fuzzy wuzzy story with some intrigue. Crisis ensues, which at some point allows SRK to tell yon female that he will find her in every life. Because that's love right there. Though, I've not figured how to make this less fuzzy wuzz and more intriguish. Because when the movie is made and offered to SRK (I've mentioned the megalomania problem I have?) I think he's mostly sick of being the hot man in love who tells women things like "In every life I'll find you". Maybe a meaty subject like Pepsi and Coke having water problems in India. Exceptin', SRK is a spokesman for Pepsi. Another meaty subject then. I love Shah Rukh Khan.

If anyone's got anything to say about that, do mail. I'm off now, to not write some more. And holy god, how did the country music channel get on my TV! That has got to be addressed this instant.

I am sure somewhere they be.
Shah Rukh Khan is in NYC. Or, he was. I thought my head was going to explode actually, I went to see U2 (AWESOME) and Bono was in NYC, and so was SRK, and so were so many other men who distantly mean a thing or two.

Eh.

I'm writing a novel this month. I'll return. Also, I'm in the process of retooling (which basically means I'm lazy).

Proselytizing for Shah Rukh.
Blame Bollywood for my absence. Not entirely, but I think that's fair, considering one movie takes up three hours of my life. I've discovered I love Bollywood--or particularly, Shah Rukh Khan. He's like an Indian Cary Grant whose dad was Charlie Chaplin. And I've decided everyone else must love him too, as he is quite lovable, and why wouldn't you want to love the biggest movie star in the world?

Do you want to be uncool?

I've been feeling for SRK the prickly heat I felt when I discovered Bono a dozen years ago. Less swooning and more irritation. I've deduced that it has to do with my own megalomania. I don't fancy standing in the "mediocre persons area" with other fans, hoping for an autograph or a picture. Instant forgetability is not a quality I enjoy.

Are you sure?
One of the hardest things to do as an adult is to make a decision and stick to it. Not so hard if the decision is whether to have ice cream or broccoli, though.

I believe that most of the time, a good indicator that you've chosen the 'right' course of action is that you feel gross. Clear conscienced, but knowing you just got down in it--that you looked down the clear comfortable road, and have chosen at peril the other path, which usually has some manner of thornery and uncertainty, although a measure of light in the distance to be sure. The light that tipped the scale.

But sometimes you don't feel in the mood for that sort of thing. Can give one a stomachache. What a shame. What does one do with shames, anyway. I have labeled a number of them and find them quite useless, but quite unthrowawayable.

Ze buch is swimming along like a little fish...that swims slow.

I'm so sick of putting things up my nose!
Uncle already, jiminy!
I've not taken the antibiotics so gleefully doled out by Dr. Dealer, deciding instead to try some quackery in the form of herbs and such. While the homeopathic remedy for the sinus inflammation helps slightly, with no groggy side effects (like Bactrim's possibility of a rare skin disease), I am still not breathing well. So I've been taking non-addictive nasal sprays, which are just about as glamorous as they sound, plus I get to feel like a cokehead--how nice!

I've started writing again (this book should be done by the time I'm 49)...Jamie Bell is proving to be an excellent muse, actually. He's gotten me a lot farther along plotwise--it's just a chore to get it down. I wonder if I'm not better suited for scriptwriting, as my style is more spare. I hear Hemingway did as well, and I've made it a point to pick up one of his novels at some point.

I'm blogging to avoid putting stuff up my nose. Sigh.

Tori and my...connection.
Tori Amos risks sounding Dr. Phillish in "Sleeps with butterflies"...but I bought the cd today just to hear the song over and over and over again.

I apparently still have the sinus infection...? My new doctor is also a drug pusher. I can come to no other conclusion, as he spoke to me for five minutes and wrote out five, FIVE, prescription blanks. I did request two of those, o.k...I was kind of surprised.

Should I instead surmise that he is a genius of medicine, needing only seconds to diagnose me, like Senator Frist diagnosed Terri Schiavo through videotape? I would surmise such, except he also had FOX "news" on in the waiting room.

Alas.