Frantic Notes at Two in the Morning

What follows are actual notes I took last night. They make sense, I swear. Well, in my head they do.

Tired, sticky, air gone. I wish I had night-vision goggles so I could read in the dark.

I might melt.

~  (on the ongoing heat. This was at midnight, by the way.)

 

I need to be studied. Obv. paranoid. I want to be perfectly spherical.

~ (on reading Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace.)

 

I have come to the conclusion that I hate summer.

~ (because I really really do.)

 

I am pretty anal about which books and DVDs I buy, because I know when I’ve got something good.

~ (On the impact of culture in my life. Still didn’t stop me from buying Fifty fuckin’ Shades though)

 

Because in Dr. Oz Land, everything means death.

~ (because I’m getting pretty sick of hearing things like COULD YOUR COMMON COLD BE A DEADLY SUPERVIRUS?)

 

Why are we so obsessed with seemingly trivial things like smelly feet, grey hairs and cellulite? Just means that your body is working. Also that you need to wear socks.

~ (Again on Dr. Oz. It’s like we’re being convinced that everything in the world is wrong with us and we should be cyborgs. Or something like that.)

 

(Quote from Charlotte Street)

‘ But that didn’t take away from the truth that is universally acknowledged, that once in a while, even Mr. Motivator needs a kebab.’

~ (I love you Danny Wallace. The rest of the note read “Seriously, who names themselves Feargal Sharkey?”)

 

Obsessions with work-outs. Garrumph. 

~ (……. No, me neither.)

 

I think I like it better when it rains.

~ (but do I also like it when it’s complicated?)

 

This blog is my transformation. What is the next step?

~ (I don’t know. And I’m dying to find out.)

 

Of all the ideas for stories I’ve ever come up with, Candy Lads is my favorite. It’s my chance to nestle into the head of a bloke. Sorta me genderfucking on the page. Or not.

~ (Pleased to report that I’m finally, tentatively, working on a rewrite of Candy Lads, which was my NaNoWriMo project last year. And yes, it is still about men taking their kit off.)

 

Don’t know on what note to end on, so I’ll end on a Random.

 

 

Wil Wheaton. He’s pretty.

 

 

 

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