Erk.
Anyway, Katie and I plan to haul the squirming evidence of my parents’ reproductive fitness to Victoria at some point in the next two weeks. But wehn??? weeeehn? is the issue at hand. There will be much discussion I’m sure.
I am writing between 2500 an’ 5000 words a day of fanfic. There, I said it. I should be ashamed of myself. Instead, I am viewing it as how the difficult gets out. I have a lot of difficult. It’s rather abundant. This is draining it, somewhat. It’s also a very high order of pantsing, and I’m liking that too. People are telling me they enjoy it, and I’m tired of writing very hard and not getting cookies. There, I said that too. There are good and bad physical consequences to writing fanfic. There, I said that too.
I’ve seen the dentist. My front tooth is fine. If I have leaky fillings, that’s not where they are. MOar dentrification in August.
One of the things I’ve been thinking about lately (along with Marxism, the second and hopefully final resignation of Christy Clark, twitter statistics, coffee and do I have enough cream, laundry — hey I WASHED AND REPLACED THE LINENS on the downstairs bed may I have a cookie please — my will, my finances, how when I called Paul’s second Echo, which is Katie’s car now, her ‘sanity machine’ she agreed with me – my daughter’s negotiations with the whining necrotic skintag who quite against all expectation — ed that’s quite enough of that — how pleased I am with the last tweezers I bought for the one piece of performative heteronormativity I do, which is pluck my eyebrows, how I only seem to be able to manage one hard thing a day these days — which is not sufficient to help save the world — and how on fucking earth I’m going to keep a fresh smell in the washing machine — because it sits with a bunch of water in it all the time and it gets funky like, all the goddamned time, and now I have to add to my list of things to do hosing it down with vinegar at least once a fucking month, o joy — and how I’m supposed to cope with the large piece of furniture that magickally appeared in my living room, and Joe of all people suggested what, and why I’m such a lazy disorganized sod, and how mango lassi is almost but not entirely proof there’s a God, and where we should buy land in northern BC to try and deal with a place to live during climate change, and how the landpeer is really nice but, wow, not exactly bumping fists with the laws of physics, and how Tom Hiddleston is just heart-jumpingly sexy) is the shape of family.
The shape changes. And when the shape changes we get a change to chance ourselves.
