2004-07-01..2:01 p.m.

Big Questions (the list continues):

Ghostbusters or Slimer? (Who would win in a fight? And I mean a proper fight, none of the gadgets)

Pollack or Picasso? (Was further out?)

Scissors or Clippers? (Nail/Beards/Nose Hair?)

Tinny or Woody? (Feels better on the tongue? To clarify, I'm talking Monty Python rather than what ever this could be confused with..)

Natural History Museum or National Gallery of Cartoon Art? (For Saturday purposes?)

Doodle or Scribble? (In the margins?)

Hotwheels or Hungry Hungry Hippo's? (Better distraction from essaying?)

The Fantastic or The Marvellous? (Would you describe Alice in Wonderland?)

You see how much better I am today? Positively sunshine and fresh coffee all over the place. Except for this. I work with a certain older man who is a nice enough guy. He�s slightly deaf, he makes slightly inappropriate comments when I wear a skirt, he�s slightly inept at holding a conversation in which both parties understand what�s going on. But he is a nice enough guy. However, if he comments that he�d �like to read my novel!� because I�m �Always writing when he passes!� which means that I �could have written a book in this time!� one more time, I just may scream. It�s every single time. It�s driving me nuts. I�m such a baby.

So, for the past two nights I�ve made plans and broken them with the hopes of getting work done for the deadline that I thought was today (but was Monday), and really what a load of wasted drinking opportunity! My respective absences didn�t amount to anything because I got FUCK ALL done. I had to use my girly hormones as an excuse to leave early yesterday in the hopes that if I got home to no distractions, I would stay there like a good girl and create marvellous things. (have you noticed a pre-menstrual trend developing here? A sudden and inexplicable desire to be *nice* and *good*. It�s sickening.)(If it shows signs of staying, please ease my legs apart, caress your fingers in a winding stroke across my breasts meandering with lazy urgency downwards and slowly fuck my latent hedonism back up to the surface.)

Regardless, I didn�t nearly get all my work done. Well maybe nearly. I got four out of the seven reviews I�ve been commissioned for finished and cybersent. So that�s ok. I feel like shit again today though, which would be so rubbish, but luckily, my feeling crap let�s me home early, which means that I can feel crap at home and at least aim to get some more writing done there. I think my paad thai the other night may have had oyster sauce or something in it because I�ve been feeling *eversoslightly* iffy in the stomach ever since. If it weren�t for the cramps and the moodswings, I�d begin to think that maybe it�s NOT pmsiness after all..

At least I�ve discovered my former incarnation as Russian Composer was Sergei Prokfiev. This is a lovely lovely revelation as I grew up listening to things like Peter and the Wolf and Romeo and Juliet.

So long my little droogies

****meep