Chimichanga NaNoWriMo

If they ever did made mouthfuls of words I guess I would have to be delivering them now. As it is, all I can process is the discordant dance of my four-finger typing on my keyboard, the gentle whirring of my Intel processor in the background (Mac temperature fans will be pleased that it is operating within normal parameters).

So…. NaNoWriMo. (Geronimo…)

As it stands, my life partner, while accusing bloggery of self-indulgence of the highest order (as it is), is trying to encourage me to Part. Ice. I. Pate. She wants me to be bald and cold. Witch. Which. I try. I really do. But. But. But.

Tumtitum. There is no critic bigger than the inner critic. Unless you’re successful. And then it’s Tammy Shalamar, editor of such illustrious tomes as ‘You always were fucked, you just didn’t know it’ and ‘Don’t eat cheese when you’re going to see the Pope’.

Shit happens. Then you die. And if you’re lucky. You’ve read Douglas Adams. The. End.

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