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I can finish this stream of consciousness in 15 minutes! ...aw, screw it, I really can't. But I'll make a start at least.
Today, we are discussing moving. As in the relocation of person or persons from one dwelling to another. We are choosing this as a discussion point because my fiancé and I are moving out of our current apartment at the end of January. Not only are we moving out at the end of January, but we aren't even moving into a new apartment until at least April.
Call me crazy, but it stresses me out just *minutely* to be packing up everything I own to... put it in storage for two months. Now I have to think about what clothes I'm going to wear over the next two months, what I want to bring to Europe with me (even though I don't leave until February 17th), and what I could possibly need while I'm without a permanent home.
It's not exactly like we don't have a place to live: we're simply relying on the kindness of our parents to let us each move back home for 6 weeks or so. Yes. Our parents. Our *separate* sets of parents. Ruy and I are getting married next year, so of course it makes sense to spend 2 months living apart. Did I mention we've lived together almost literally since the beginning of our relationship? Yeah. Four years living together, and now we're going to go off and live separately for 2 months. That's... that's going to take a little getting used to.
The sad thing is, it is literally *entirely* up to me to get this apartment packed and ready to go. Ruy works during the week and is exhausted when he comes home in the evenings. I'm currently unemployed, so the packing falls to me. Except, wait a minute, didn't all the packing fall to me in our last move? While Ruy was working from home? Huh. Something's not quite right about that.
Right, so today was Day 1 of the packing. Just *guess* how well it went, metaphorical reader, just *guess*. If you were guessing it did not go very well, give yourself a pat on the back! First of all, I was still at my parents' house this morning, from my dentist appointment yesterday, so I had to get up at ass o'clock to get back downtown. Second, waking up at ass o'clock made me so tired that I had to have several spontaneous naps. Third, I managed to get one box packed and taped shut, before I had to open it back up and unpack it because I thought I had dropped my engagement ring in there. By the end of the day, I had two boxes packed, half a dresser cleaned off, and a third of my shirts culled to go to thrift. That's *almost* an accomplishment, except for the fact that we were supposed to be showing our apartment tonight, and I was supposed to have tidied up somewhat as well.
Which is why it is now midnight on the 6th of January and I'm sitting in the office, pondering how I'm going to pack all of my crafting supplies. Also the cats are scratching at the door, because I am *totally* having more fun in here than they could possibly be having out there, so they would like to come in. Except I would like to spend time in here getting something other than corralling cats off my keyboard done.
I could leave packing until tomorrow, but it's a surety that I will suddenly fall ill/need to sleep all day/edit something, somewhere, for someone. So, here I am, packing. Well, no, here I am, typing this stream of whatever up, so that I don't have to write double tomorrow.
Speaking of which, save for the days when I write on the cusp of the next day (like right now, for instance), I have actually managed a decent word count every day this year. It can't last, and it won't last, but I'm a little bit proud of my ability to stick to this goal for, you know, nearly a week. I'm pretty sure that's a record.
Back to moving. I have resigned myself to the fact that we are moving out of this wonderful apartment, because we can no longer afford it. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be living in a suburb (I'm a lot more okay with this than Ruy, obviously). I have also resigned myself to the fact that we will be putting all of our stuff into storage. What I can't quite come to terms with is that we don't have a place to live yet, and won't know where we're living until March, at least.
I understand that we will be saving money by not paying February or March's rent, and that February is something of a moot point anyway, since half of it, we're spending in Europe. I just don't understand the concept of not looking for a place at the beginning of February and moving when we get back in March. You know, like normal people, like my parents and I, would assume. No, instead, we go back to living separately, and somehow looking for a place together, and move in April. It just makes it feel *so* much like I'm spending a third of my year moving!
Okay, little miss cat scratchy, I'll let you in the room, but you have to promise that you're not going to walk on the keyboard. Or *try* not to walk on the keyboard. Actually, just doing something that doesn't equate to scratching your claws down the door would be splendid.
A whole new box has been packed, full of craft supplies. If only there wasn't quite so much stuff still left in that closet to pack. It always seems like a good idea to cram all that stuff in there to store it. Why do I never think about months down the road, when I'm going to have to uncram it all and compress it?
Word Count: 1022
Word Count to Date: 5040
Today, we are discussing moving. As in the relocation of person or persons from one dwelling to another. We are choosing this as a discussion point because my fiancé and I are moving out of our current apartment at the end of January. Not only are we moving out at the end of January, but we aren't even moving into a new apartment until at least April.
Call me crazy, but it stresses me out just *minutely* to be packing up everything I own to... put it in storage for two months. Now I have to think about what clothes I'm going to wear over the next two months, what I want to bring to Europe with me (even though I don't leave until February 17th), and what I could possibly need while I'm without a permanent home.
It's not exactly like we don't have a place to live: we're simply relying on the kindness of our parents to let us each move back home for 6 weeks or so. Yes. Our parents. Our *separate* sets of parents. Ruy and I are getting married next year, so of course it makes sense to spend 2 months living apart. Did I mention we've lived together almost literally since the beginning of our relationship? Yeah. Four years living together, and now we're going to go off and live separately for 2 months. That's... that's going to take a little getting used to.
The sad thing is, it is literally *entirely* up to me to get this apartment packed and ready to go. Ruy works during the week and is exhausted when he comes home in the evenings. I'm currently unemployed, so the packing falls to me. Except, wait a minute, didn't all the packing fall to me in our last move? While Ruy was working from home? Huh. Something's not quite right about that.
Right, so today was Day 1 of the packing. Just *guess* how well it went, metaphorical reader, just *guess*. If you were guessing it did not go very well, give yourself a pat on the back! First of all, I was still at my parents' house this morning, from my dentist appointment yesterday, so I had to get up at ass o'clock to get back downtown. Second, waking up at ass o'clock made me so tired that I had to have several spontaneous naps. Third, I managed to get one box packed and taped shut, before I had to open it back up and unpack it because I thought I had dropped my engagement ring in there. By the end of the day, I had two boxes packed, half a dresser cleaned off, and a third of my shirts culled to go to thrift. That's *almost* an accomplishment, except for the fact that we were supposed to be showing our apartment tonight, and I was supposed to have tidied up somewhat as well.
Which is why it is now midnight on the 6th of January and I'm sitting in the office, pondering how I'm going to pack all of my crafting supplies. Also the cats are scratching at the door, because I am *totally* having more fun in here than they could possibly be having out there, so they would like to come in. Except I would like to spend time in here getting something other than corralling cats off my keyboard done.
I could leave packing until tomorrow, but it's a surety that I will suddenly fall ill/need to sleep all day/edit something, somewhere, for someone. So, here I am, packing. Well, no, here I am, typing this stream of whatever up, so that I don't have to write double tomorrow.
Speaking of which, save for the days when I write on the cusp of the next day (like right now, for instance), I have actually managed a decent word count every day this year. It can't last, and it won't last, but I'm a little bit proud of my ability to stick to this goal for, you know, nearly a week. I'm pretty sure that's a record.
Back to moving. I have resigned myself to the fact that we are moving out of this wonderful apartment, because we can no longer afford it. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be living in a suburb (I'm a lot more okay with this than Ruy, obviously). I have also resigned myself to the fact that we will be putting all of our stuff into storage. What I can't quite come to terms with is that we don't have a place to live yet, and won't know where we're living until March, at least.
I understand that we will be saving money by not paying February or March's rent, and that February is something of a moot point anyway, since half of it, we're spending in Europe. I just don't understand the concept of not looking for a place at the beginning of February and moving when we get back in March. You know, like normal people, like my parents and I, would assume. No, instead, we go back to living separately, and somehow looking for a place together, and move in April. It just makes it feel *so* much like I'm spending a third of my year moving!
Okay, little miss cat scratchy, I'll let you in the room, but you have to promise that you're not going to walk on the keyboard. Or *try* not to walk on the keyboard. Actually, just doing something that doesn't equate to scratching your claws down the door would be splendid.
A whole new box has been packed, full of craft supplies. If only there wasn't quite so much stuff still left in that closet to pack. It always seems like a good idea to cram all that stuff in there to store it. Why do I never think about months down the road, when I'm going to have to uncram it all and compress it?
Word Count: 1022
Word Count to Date: 5040
Rant: Day 4 - Vegan Protesters
Jan. 4th, 2011 06:13 pmI'm all about protesting. I mean, I've never seen protesting do anything of value, and the "protesters" from the Olympics last February kind of left a bad taste in my mouth, but everyone has a right to their opinion, and somewhere, I'm sure it says that you have a right to go and peacefully protest that opinion somewhere.
However, what I've seen from protesters is a lot of pie-throwing, window-smashing, insult-hurling action, and I haven't once met a protester who isn't a raging egomaniac. And so, *so* often, a "peaceful" protest degrades into violence, that I just don't understand the point.
Now, we return to the vegans.
Yesterday, my fiancé and I drove past some people on the corner of Robson and Burrard, holding signs that said "Go Green Go Vegan," complete with a lack of punctuation (that last comma is only there for grammatical reasons on this end).
If you're staunch enough about your veganism that you want to stand on the corner with a sign, you are likely staunch enough to believe that there are no exceptions to your slogan. You are also likely an asshat. No, that's not what I meant. What I actually meant to say was that you are also likely to be a complete and utter prick about it when approached.
I cannot be a vegan, even if I want to be one. There are simply too many essential parts of veganism that clash with a variety of diet restrictions on my own behalf due to health reasons. Vegans don't eat meat. Instead, they eat things like tempeh and tofu and almond-meal, because they are high in protein. I may not, strictly speaking, enjoy meat, but I cannot eat most "delicious vegan meat substitutes," due to soy allergies, gluten intolerance, and nut allergies. Well. I guess there goes my protein.
Okay, so we have established that I could not subsist on a vegan diet. The protesters' signs say "Go Green [by going] Vegan." If I cannot go vegan, does this mean I cannot go green? Does this mean I don't care about the environment? Am I somehow a worse person because I am medically unable to convert to veganism? Coupling their slogan with the fact that they are protesting this matter in public, on a street corner, in the first place, indicates that they care little for people who won't go green by going vegan.
Never mind that I don't think this is a matter about which a protest needs to take place, I demanded that my fiancé stop the car, so that I could get out of the car and have words with these people. He did, until he realized I was actually serious, and then refused to let me get out.
Then, we argued about how I was stereotyping vegans and protesters. THEN, he argued that by venting about idiotic vegan protesters, I was a hypocrite because I support unions going on strike and picketing.
Yes. That makes perfect sense. If I don't support protesting about a person's food choices (did you know, in some countries of the world, people don't have a *choice* in the kind of food they eat?), then I absolutely cannot support picketing for fair working wages and conditions. This does not follow!
Okay, obviously, I did not agree with him and got quite upset, but we canned the argument when he realized the analogy was not quite sound.
If, somewhere, it says you have a constitutional right to protest, go for it. I'll support your right to do so. I won't support your right to decide my lifestyle for me (I mean, *God*, it's not like I'm going around and forcing everyone to be gay with me!), especially when you have no idea what the mitigating circumstances might be. Such protesters don't earn my respect, they earn my ire. Your reasons for protesting are specious. I can be green without being vegan, and so I will be.
Word Count: 822
Word Count to Date: 4018
However, what I've seen from protesters is a lot of pie-throwing, window-smashing, insult-hurling action, and I haven't once met a protester who isn't a raging egomaniac. And so, *so* often, a "peaceful" protest degrades into violence, that I just don't understand the point.
Now, we return to the vegans.
Yesterday, my fiancé and I drove past some people on the corner of Robson and Burrard, holding signs that said "Go Green Go Vegan," complete with a lack of punctuation (that last comma is only there for grammatical reasons on this end).
If you're staunch enough about your veganism that you want to stand on the corner with a sign, you are likely staunch enough to believe that there are no exceptions to your slogan. You are also likely an asshat. No, that's not what I meant. What I actually meant to say was that you are also likely to be a complete and utter prick about it when approached.
I cannot be a vegan, even if I want to be one. There are simply too many essential parts of veganism that clash with a variety of diet restrictions on my own behalf due to health reasons. Vegans don't eat meat. Instead, they eat things like tempeh and tofu and almond-meal, because they are high in protein. I may not, strictly speaking, enjoy meat, but I cannot eat most "delicious vegan meat substitutes," due to soy allergies, gluten intolerance, and nut allergies. Well. I guess there goes my protein.
Okay, so we have established that I could not subsist on a vegan diet. The protesters' signs say "Go Green [by going] Vegan." If I cannot go vegan, does this mean I cannot go green? Does this mean I don't care about the environment? Am I somehow a worse person because I am medically unable to convert to veganism? Coupling their slogan with the fact that they are protesting this matter in public, on a street corner, in the first place, indicates that they care little for people who won't go green by going vegan.
Never mind that I don't think this is a matter about which a protest needs to take place, I demanded that my fiancé stop the car, so that I could get out of the car and have words with these people. He did, until he realized I was actually serious, and then refused to let me get out.
Then, we argued about how I was stereotyping vegans and protesters. THEN, he argued that by venting about idiotic vegan protesters, I was a hypocrite because I support unions going on strike and picketing.
Yes. That makes perfect sense. If I don't support protesting about a person's food choices (did you know, in some countries of the world, people don't have a *choice* in the kind of food they eat?), then I absolutely cannot support picketing for fair working wages and conditions. This does not follow!
Okay, obviously, I did not agree with him and got quite upset, but we canned the argument when he realized the analogy was not quite sound.
If, somewhere, it says you have a constitutional right to protest, go for it. I'll support your right to do so. I won't support your right to decide my lifestyle for me (I mean, *God*, it's not like I'm going around and forcing everyone to be gay with me!), especially when you have no idea what the mitigating circumstances might be. Such protesters don't earn my respect, they earn my ire. Your reasons for protesting are specious. I can be green without being vegan, and so I will be.
Word Count: 822
Word Count to Date: 4018
Sure, just as I sit down to start writing this, the kitten decides it's time to leap up onto my chest and sling her paws over my shoulder. So she doesn't fall, I'm holding her up with one hand, which leaves me with one hand to type with. I could be here all night.
I wasn't aiming for another stream of consciousness post, but words are words, fictional or not, so here we are. Do I think I could do this for the next 350 some-odd days? I'd say no, but my ability to bullshit 2000 words about nothing is actually pretty astounding. However, this was supposed to be a year about challenging myself, so eventually I'm going to have to stray from standard fare.
Having readjusted, I'm back to two hands. I wouldn't say I'm any closer to having anything worthwhile to say. I can only complain for so long about the rusty dagger in my stomach that won't go away for love nor money. I would have hoped that the Tylenol would have done something, and if not the Tylenol, then at least the Dilaudid. So far, I have nothing. Nothing but the horrible nauseating feeling in my stomach, the constant pain that I can no longer ignore, and the feeling that if I don't go back to bed soon, I may not like what tomorrow brings.
I suppose I brought this on myself. I needed to have switched to a liquid diet, starting November 19th, and I...didn't. So, my fault, really. I can't help that I love solid food so much. If this pain continues the way it sits right now, I will eat round about nothing and whimper through my days. Gastroparesis sucks. Idiopathic gastroparesis sucks harder. How long will I have to go through life with *this* metaphorically strung to my back?
I can't even lie here any longer, as the urge to be sick is getting stronger. See you, metaphorical reader, in about 10 hours or so. Enjoy your night.
[insert time passing]
10 hours later, I don't see a hell of a lot of difference. Stomach still hurts, cats are still chasing each other, each eating the other one's bowl of food, but now with the added bonus of *never* wanting to back to sleep, because those were some messed up dreams I just finished having.
I'm actually supposed to be looking up buses to get to the dentist, since time is steadily ticking by, but I figure the least I can do is finish this sentence. Right, sentence finished, bus looked up. If it doesn't spontaneously start snowing, I should be able to leave here around 11:30 and get to the dentist early, but not so early it's ridiculous.
God, it's like I'm *looking* for things to talk about. The sky is... not blue today. Last night, I dreamt we could see the planets from the SkyTrain, which was weird, but I would totally do it again. I think the cat might be trying to sleep on my head.
Ugh. It's not so much that I want to have a nap (with less than 40 minutes to go), as much as the nap wants to have me, and have me good. Stupid need to stay awake. Although, I bet you that if this were a normal day, I would have no urge to nap right now. I would be so awake it would be ridiculous, and I would be doing things like starting to organize the apartment. No such luck. 35 minutes to go, and I'm about to conk out on the couch.
I've just heard that we are a go for moving at the end of the month. We need to be out on January 31st, and our landlord is showing our suite tomorrow evening to potential people. Heh. Now, I just need to figure out a way to make the bunny room smell a lot less, and we might almost be presentableish.
The kitten is curled up on my chest again, but this time, she has flung her legs out so that at least one is touching the trackpad on my laptop at all times. How very sweet of you!
[insert more time passing]
It really says something about how early I woke up this morning, that I fell asleep on the bus ride out to the suburbs. The bus ride out to the suburbs that takes all of about an hour and a quarter. And that I think I only slept for 10 minutes. All I know is, I woke up and I was suddenly in an entirely different [area of the] city. The sad part being that I actually went to bed at a decent hour, slept a decent number of hours, and I was still tired enough to fall asleep on the bus.
Let it now be said that I hate dentists. I don't even like them a small amount. Between the polishing, and the scraping, and the laser levelling, there's not a whole lot to like. Oh, except for the appointment I have in a month's time (only because no way in *hell* was I going back to the dentist tomorrow), to fill in piece of filling that fell out (Should I have noticed? I didn't notice. In fact, I was downright adamant that no such piece of filling fell out) of one of my teeth, fill in a slice on the back of the tooth next to it, that's been missing since I was 16 and got my braces off, and refinish one of my front teeth, from which it appears a part of it was ground away. Likely in the stress of the last ten months. Not that I told them as such.
Word Count: 959
Word Count to Date: 3011
I wasn't aiming for another stream of consciousness post, but words are words, fictional or not, so here we are. Do I think I could do this for the next 350 some-odd days? I'd say no, but my ability to bullshit 2000 words about nothing is actually pretty astounding. However, this was supposed to be a year about challenging myself, so eventually I'm going to have to stray from standard fare.
Having readjusted, I'm back to two hands. I wouldn't say I'm any closer to having anything worthwhile to say. I can only complain for so long about the rusty dagger in my stomach that won't go away for love nor money. I would have hoped that the Tylenol would have done something, and if not the Tylenol, then at least the Dilaudid. So far, I have nothing. Nothing but the horrible nauseating feeling in my stomach, the constant pain that I can no longer ignore, and the feeling that if I don't go back to bed soon, I may not like what tomorrow brings.
I suppose I brought this on myself. I needed to have switched to a liquid diet, starting November 19th, and I...didn't. So, my fault, really. I can't help that I love solid food so much. If this pain continues the way it sits right now, I will eat round about nothing and whimper through my days. Gastroparesis sucks. Idiopathic gastroparesis sucks harder. How long will I have to go through life with *this* metaphorically strung to my back?
I can't even lie here any longer, as the urge to be sick is getting stronger. See you, metaphorical reader, in about 10 hours or so. Enjoy your night.
[insert time passing]
10 hours later, I don't see a hell of a lot of difference. Stomach still hurts, cats are still chasing each other, each eating the other one's bowl of food, but now with the added bonus of *never* wanting to back to sleep, because those were some messed up dreams I just finished having.
I'm actually supposed to be looking up buses to get to the dentist, since time is steadily ticking by, but I figure the least I can do is finish this sentence. Right, sentence finished, bus looked up. If it doesn't spontaneously start snowing, I should be able to leave here around 11:30 and get to the dentist early, but not so early it's ridiculous.
God, it's like I'm *looking* for things to talk about. The sky is... not blue today. Last night, I dreamt we could see the planets from the SkyTrain, which was weird, but I would totally do it again. I think the cat might be trying to sleep on my head.
Ugh. It's not so much that I want to have a nap (with less than 40 minutes to go), as much as the nap wants to have me, and have me good. Stupid need to stay awake. Although, I bet you that if this were a normal day, I would have no urge to nap right now. I would be so awake it would be ridiculous, and I would be doing things like starting to organize the apartment. No such luck. 35 minutes to go, and I'm about to conk out on the couch.
I've just heard that we are a go for moving at the end of the month. We need to be out on January 31st, and our landlord is showing our suite tomorrow evening to potential people. Heh. Now, I just need to figure out a way to make the bunny room smell a lot less, and we might almost be presentableish.
The kitten is curled up on my chest again, but this time, she has flung her legs out so that at least one is touching the trackpad on my laptop at all times. How very sweet of you!
[insert more time passing]
It really says something about how early I woke up this morning, that I fell asleep on the bus ride out to the suburbs. The bus ride out to the suburbs that takes all of about an hour and a quarter. And that I think I only slept for 10 minutes. All I know is, I woke up and I was suddenly in an entirely different [area of the] city. The sad part being that I actually went to bed at a decent hour, slept a decent number of hours, and I was still tired enough to fall asleep on the bus.
Let it now be said that I hate dentists. I don't even like them a small amount. Between the polishing, and the scraping, and the laser levelling, there's not a whole lot to like. Oh, except for the appointment I have in a month's time (only because no way in *hell* was I going back to the dentist tomorrow), to fill in piece of filling that fell out (Should I have noticed? I didn't notice. In fact, I was downright adamant that no such piece of filling fell out) of one of my teeth, fill in a slice on the back of the tooth next to it, that's been missing since I was 16 and got my braces off, and refinish one of my front teeth, from which it appears a part of it was ground away. Likely in the stress of the last ten months. Not that I told them as such.
Word Count: 959
Word Count to Date: 3011
Stream of Consciousness: Day 2 - On cats.
Jan. 2nd, 2011 04:09 amWould you believe I dragged myself, still peacefully half-asleep, out of my bed at nearly half past three in the morning, purely for the allure of getting to work on my second day's writing? No? Me neither. Really, I just couldn't sleep. Snoring fiancé, and warm purring kitty snuggled up to me aside, sleep is elusive.
Because it's half past three, the cats are fully awake, and ready for a night of running around and getting all that work done before going back to bed for another eighteen hours. Not only are they awake, but the kitten is sticking her head into my cup of water as if she hopes I'm going to share, and the cat is growling at the kitten, because the kitten is invading her space.
Through a shaggy mop of messy, dyed blonde hair, I stare at these two felines and wonder if they will ever truly get along.
Tessa, our eldest cat, usually occupies a perch on the cat tree, watching us work. Pegasus, our barely 3-month old kitten naps in the cat bed set up on top of the scanner that I don't think we've used in the entire time we've owned it. For that matter, I'm not entirely sure that the scanner belongs to us. We ended up with it anyway, and now it occupies space. How I long for it to get "lost in the move" when I start packing, and ruthlessly throwing away the stuff we can do without.
Tessa's not exactly a bully, though I'm certain she's trying. If Pegasus is in the cat bed, Tessa wants in. Never mind that Tessa has never wanted to sleep in a cat bed in her entire life; if Pegasus wants to be there, then Tessa's climbing in and taking a nap. If Pegasus is in the cat tree, Tessa wants her spot back. Never mind that there's three levels to the tree, or that Tessa isn't even tired. If Pegasus is attempting to take over something, anything, regardless of Tessa's previous lack of interest, Tessa's ready and waiting to claim it. It's not like Pegasus much cares, however. All that's in her mind is play, play, play, nap. Tessa growling like a small rumbling car doesn't deter anything she does. Life's still a game to Pegasus.
Case in point, it doesn't matter how many times Tessa hisses at her and swats her away, Pegasus' interest in catching Tessa's tail is unmatched by anything else. She will catch that elusive bugger of a tail, regardless of how Tessa feels about it. Honestly, I can't see why Tessa complains; half the time, she treats her tail like she's never seen the thing before anyway.
I've seen some evidence that Tessa doesn't actually *hate* Pegasus. They share food, food bowls, water, water containers, litter boxes, beds, toys, blankets, and so on. Tessa doesn't bar Pegasus from eating or drinking, so long as it's not while Tessa herself is trying to eat. Occasionally, Tessa *is* up for a game of Chase. It's rare, but it happens. And more and more often, I come into a room to find them curled up not 6 feet from each other. It's not exactly cuddling, but it's not eating one another, either.
Pegasus is young and full of boundless energy. Tessa is getting older and, like her mother, is more interested in napping. She wants to sleep, not be pounced on by an eager child. I can attest to the annoyance of this, as Pegasus has spent the last two early mornings pouncing repeatedly onto our bed, and trying to eat and/or claw any body part moving beneath the blanket. Personally, I think Tessa should be glad that Pegasus is only trying to catch her tail, and not chew off her fingers, like Pegasus is doing to me.
I get it, it's a bonding exercise. Fingers are the closest things to teats a human has, except for the actual nipples, but unlike on a mother cat, a human's nipples are generally inaccessible, and, ew, that would be weird. The point is, because fingers are like nipples, Pegasus suckles and bites on them. Like she thinks I'm her mother. That's adorable and sweet and everything, but damn if my fingers don't hurt a hell of a lot after being gnawed on by an eager kitten. I'm happy Pegasus thinks I'm her mother, I just wish it was a little less painful.
They have both left the room now, despite their initial interest in being in here, fighting over the water cup, hanging out with mommy, and making sure to lay right on the keyboard so that she can't type. If I get up now, I'm almost certain I'll find Tessa napping on the bed or in the closet, and Pegasus doing something odd. And I mean more odd than chasing my stuffed animals down the hallway. I would wager that if someone has left the toilet lid open, she's either fallen in, or is about to drink from it. I wish she wouldn't. Nothing good ever comes out of a toilet.
Before Pegasus, I'd never met a cat who was so unphased by water before. Between the recreational sink napping, and the more than occasional toilet hopping, she's already calmly had her first bath, and flopped down on the edge of the bathtub while we were in it, batting at the water. I always assumed it was just in a cat's nature to hate water, but Pegasus just seems so *open* to the idea. And Tessa? Well, Tessa's set in her ways, and doesn't much like bathing, but at least she recognizes occasionally that sometimes she doesn't have a choice in the matter. That, of course, does not stop her from voicing her opinion on the matter. Loudly, in the form of yowling.
Would it be too much to ask to go into the bedroom and find them both sleeping on the bed? Yes, probably. But I do approach the situation optimistically. Someday, when Pegasus has grown up a little, and Tessa's tail stops being so delightful, they will work things out. Until then, all I ask for is a little less hissing and swatting, and a little more cooperation.
Word Count: 1039
Word Count To Date: 2052
Because it's half past three, the cats are fully awake, and ready for a night of running around and getting all that work done before going back to bed for another eighteen hours. Not only are they awake, but the kitten is sticking her head into my cup of water as if she hopes I'm going to share, and the cat is growling at the kitten, because the kitten is invading her space.
Through a shaggy mop of messy, dyed blonde hair, I stare at these two felines and wonder if they will ever truly get along.
Tessa, our eldest cat, usually occupies a perch on the cat tree, watching us work. Pegasus, our barely 3-month old kitten naps in the cat bed set up on top of the scanner that I don't think we've used in the entire time we've owned it. For that matter, I'm not entirely sure that the scanner belongs to us. We ended up with it anyway, and now it occupies space. How I long for it to get "lost in the move" when I start packing, and ruthlessly throwing away the stuff we can do without.
Tessa's not exactly a bully, though I'm certain she's trying. If Pegasus is in the cat bed, Tessa wants in. Never mind that Tessa has never wanted to sleep in a cat bed in her entire life; if Pegasus wants to be there, then Tessa's climbing in and taking a nap. If Pegasus is in the cat tree, Tessa wants her spot back. Never mind that there's three levels to the tree, or that Tessa isn't even tired. If Pegasus is attempting to take over something, anything, regardless of Tessa's previous lack of interest, Tessa's ready and waiting to claim it. It's not like Pegasus much cares, however. All that's in her mind is play, play, play, nap. Tessa growling like a small rumbling car doesn't deter anything she does. Life's still a game to Pegasus.
Case in point, it doesn't matter how many times Tessa hisses at her and swats her away, Pegasus' interest in catching Tessa's tail is unmatched by anything else. She will catch that elusive bugger of a tail, regardless of how Tessa feels about it. Honestly, I can't see why Tessa complains; half the time, she treats her tail like she's never seen the thing before anyway.
I've seen some evidence that Tessa doesn't actually *hate* Pegasus. They share food, food bowls, water, water containers, litter boxes, beds, toys, blankets, and so on. Tessa doesn't bar Pegasus from eating or drinking, so long as it's not while Tessa herself is trying to eat. Occasionally, Tessa *is* up for a game of Chase. It's rare, but it happens. And more and more often, I come into a room to find them curled up not 6 feet from each other. It's not exactly cuddling, but it's not eating one another, either.
Pegasus is young and full of boundless energy. Tessa is getting older and, like her mother, is more interested in napping. She wants to sleep, not be pounced on by an eager child. I can attest to the annoyance of this, as Pegasus has spent the last two early mornings pouncing repeatedly onto our bed, and trying to eat and/or claw any body part moving beneath the blanket. Personally, I think Tessa should be glad that Pegasus is only trying to catch her tail, and not chew off her fingers, like Pegasus is doing to me.
I get it, it's a bonding exercise. Fingers are the closest things to teats a human has, except for the actual nipples, but unlike on a mother cat, a human's nipples are generally inaccessible, and, ew, that would be weird. The point is, because fingers are like nipples, Pegasus suckles and bites on them. Like she thinks I'm her mother. That's adorable and sweet and everything, but damn if my fingers don't hurt a hell of a lot after being gnawed on by an eager kitten. I'm happy Pegasus thinks I'm her mother, I just wish it was a little less painful.
They have both left the room now, despite their initial interest in being in here, fighting over the water cup, hanging out with mommy, and making sure to lay right on the keyboard so that she can't type. If I get up now, I'm almost certain I'll find Tessa napping on the bed or in the closet, and Pegasus doing something odd. And I mean more odd than chasing my stuffed animals down the hallway. I would wager that if someone has left the toilet lid open, she's either fallen in, or is about to drink from it. I wish she wouldn't. Nothing good ever comes out of a toilet.
Before Pegasus, I'd never met a cat who was so unphased by water before. Between the recreational sink napping, and the more than occasional toilet hopping, she's already calmly had her first bath, and flopped down on the edge of the bathtub while we were in it, batting at the water. I always assumed it was just in a cat's nature to hate water, but Pegasus just seems so *open* to the idea. And Tessa? Well, Tessa's set in her ways, and doesn't much like bathing, but at least she recognizes occasionally that sometimes she doesn't have a choice in the matter. That, of course, does not stop her from voicing her opinion on the matter. Loudly, in the form of yowling.
Would it be too much to ask to go into the bedroom and find them both sleeping on the bed? Yes, probably. But I do approach the situation optimistically. Someday, when Pegasus has grown up a little, and Tessa's tail stops being so delightful, they will work things out. Until then, all I ask for is a little less hissing and swatting, and a little more cooperation.
Word Count: 1039
Word Count To Date: 2052
Blank white page.
Who gets any writing done while staring at a blank white page?
Maybe, just maybe, if it was purple, it would not look nearly so intimidating. I mean, you could come into this, having an outline and a vague idea of what to write, and still look at the blank white page, and have that feeling of dread in your stomach.
What have I gotten myself into? 350,000 words, in 365 days. A little under 1000 words a day. It is, of course, possible, as I had to write much more than that when I participated in NaNoWriMo (Note to self: Do not write out NaNoWriMo in its entirety just to pad out this document. No matter how tempting it might seem).
Looking at 350,000 words as a giant glomp makes the task seem insurmountable. As my mom says, you cannot look at the plate of all the sandwiches you will need to eat for the rest of your life and think about when you will find the time and stomach space to eat them. You simply pluck a sandwich off the top, do not look down at the growing pile of them beneath you, and start eating. In other words, you take it in chunks. Each day as it comes. Each 1000 word sandwich, as it were.
Of course, it would certainly help if one of the cats did not occasionally come by and walk across the keyboard, either starting applications, opening games, or locking my desktop.
All this talk of sandwiches is making crave cheese, which is utterly ridiculous, because I cannot possibly be hungry after all of the throwing up and dizziness earlier. So, I should not be mentally walking into the kitchen, opening the fridge, and stealing a few Babybels before ambling slowly back to work. Because I'm so sure that the cheese would help the writing process and not hinder it. Lactose intolerance, gastroparesis, I really should not be eating anything at all. Especially not something solid.
*runs away to the fridge like some sort of cheese-hoarding rodent*
So, it's now a few hours later. I totally ate that cheese. Was it a good idea? No, no, it was not. That cheese did not stay down. I don't think I like cheese any more.
It's also now the next day in January, and I am totally rushing to finish this before I go to bed. Because I do not want to have to add today (yesterday)'s unfinished word count to tomorrow (today)'s already too-large word count.
Which brings us right back around to our original topic. My original topic. Writing almost a thousand words a day for a year. During this time, I am *pretty* sure I will either (a) forget how to write a coherent sentence, having dumped all my words out, or (b) noticed significant patterns in my writing. Patterns like writing pretty much how I talk. And apparently, I talk in sentence fragments. Oh, how professional.
But wait, is my intention really to become a better writer, semantically? Can you really be much of an editor if you write a stream of consciousness in the form of a stream of consciousness, rather than, say, in essay format, or like that of an academic article? Wait. I don't think you can write an academic article about a stream of consciousness. Who would you even cite?
So, does an editor need to write the way she expects other people to write? Well, I suppose not. Unless someone hires me to proofread their own stream of consciousness. My point here is, unless I'm writing professionally or academically, I don't really see a point to making my brain mumblings into professional, non-sentence-fragmented text.
Thus, the idea is to keep your professional writing and your free writing separate. Keep your sentence fragments and awesome idioms in your free writing. Don't bring anything but your grammatical prowess to your professional writing. Well, grammatical prowess and a point. Your writing doesn't mean anything if it doesn't have a point. People don't get published in journals for not having a point. Oh, who am I kidding, that happens all the time. The sheer number of articles I read in university that went absolutely nowhere splendidly was astounding.
And now I'm veering off topic again. Eat your sandwiches one bite at a time. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Which is great advice for someone who has *already* signed up for the insane version of getyourwordsout. That's the dictionary definition of biting off more than you can chew. Or it would be if dictionaries did phrases.
This is not turning into anything more exciting than it was when I started. I blame the fact that Ruy is watching The Office loudly in the background, and I find it very hard to not listen, and I cannot write well and listen at the same time. How is this show still on the air? I mean, it's not that it's not a good show. It's just very samey. Michael does something crazy, and people talk and DAMN IT I CANNOT CONCENTRATE HERE. Also, it makes me tense, and I don't turn out good verbiage when I'm tense. Though apparently I do whip out the vocabulary words.
The other thing is the cats, who are mercifully occupied right now, but the minute I finish typing this sentence extolling their virtues, will return to waltzing across my keyboard or chewing on my fingers. Oh, and someone just ran into a box. I'm betting it was Pegasus. *gallop gallop gallop gallop CLUNK* *gallop gallop gallop CRASH* *gallop gallop gallop gallop sound of plastic bags being run into and played with*
Nearly there. I can see the ending. Of today. Which I should have finished writing over an hour ago. So, actually, I see the ending behind me. Glimmering. And the next ending glimmering somewhere tomorrow. Once I can think of what I'm going to talk about tomorrow. "Today, I thought about packing a box. We don't have any boxes."
OH, SWEET WORD COUNT MET!
Word Count: 1013
Who gets any writing done while staring at a blank white page?
Maybe, just maybe, if it was purple, it would not look nearly so intimidating. I mean, you could come into this, having an outline and a vague idea of what to write, and still look at the blank white page, and have that feeling of dread in your stomach.
What have I gotten myself into? 350,000 words, in 365 days. A little under 1000 words a day. It is, of course, possible, as I had to write much more than that when I participated in NaNoWriMo (Note to self: Do not write out NaNoWriMo in its entirety just to pad out this document. No matter how tempting it might seem).
Looking at 350,000 words as a giant glomp makes the task seem insurmountable. As my mom says, you cannot look at the plate of all the sandwiches you will need to eat for the rest of your life and think about when you will find the time and stomach space to eat them. You simply pluck a sandwich off the top, do not look down at the growing pile of them beneath you, and start eating. In other words, you take it in chunks. Each day as it comes. Each 1000 word sandwich, as it were.
Of course, it would certainly help if one of the cats did not occasionally come by and walk across the keyboard, either starting applications, opening games, or locking my desktop.
All this talk of sandwiches is making crave cheese, which is utterly ridiculous, because I cannot possibly be hungry after all of the throwing up and dizziness earlier. So, I should not be mentally walking into the kitchen, opening the fridge, and stealing a few Babybels before ambling slowly back to work. Because I'm so sure that the cheese would help the writing process and not hinder it. Lactose intolerance, gastroparesis, I really should not be eating anything at all. Especially not something solid.
*runs away to the fridge like some sort of cheese-hoarding rodent*
So, it's now a few hours later. I totally ate that cheese. Was it a good idea? No, no, it was not. That cheese did not stay down. I don't think I like cheese any more.
It's also now the next day in January, and I am totally rushing to finish this before I go to bed. Because I do not want to have to add today (yesterday)'s unfinished word count to tomorrow (today)'s already too-large word count.
Which brings us right back around to our original topic. My original topic. Writing almost a thousand words a day for a year. During this time, I am *pretty* sure I will either (a) forget how to write a coherent sentence, having dumped all my words out, or (b) noticed significant patterns in my writing. Patterns like writing pretty much how I talk. And apparently, I talk in sentence fragments. Oh, how professional.
But wait, is my intention really to become a better writer, semantically? Can you really be much of an editor if you write a stream of consciousness in the form of a stream of consciousness, rather than, say, in essay format, or like that of an academic article? Wait. I don't think you can write an academic article about a stream of consciousness. Who would you even cite?
So, does an editor need to write the way she expects other people to write? Well, I suppose not. Unless someone hires me to proofread their own stream of consciousness. My point here is, unless I'm writing professionally or academically, I don't really see a point to making my brain mumblings into professional, non-sentence-fragmented text.
Thus, the idea is to keep your professional writing and your free writing separate. Keep your sentence fragments and awesome idioms in your free writing. Don't bring anything but your grammatical prowess to your professional writing. Well, grammatical prowess and a point. Your writing doesn't mean anything if it doesn't have a point. People don't get published in journals for not having a point. Oh, who am I kidding, that happens all the time. The sheer number of articles I read in university that went absolutely nowhere splendidly was astounding.
And now I'm veering off topic again. Eat your sandwiches one bite at a time. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Which is great advice for someone who has *already* signed up for the insane version of getyourwordsout. That's the dictionary definition of biting off more than you can chew. Or it would be if dictionaries did phrases.
This is not turning into anything more exciting than it was when I started. I blame the fact that Ruy is watching The Office loudly in the background, and I find it very hard to not listen, and I cannot write well and listen at the same time. How is this show still on the air? I mean, it's not that it's not a good show. It's just very samey. Michael does something crazy, and people talk and DAMN IT I CANNOT CONCENTRATE HERE. Also, it makes me tense, and I don't turn out good verbiage when I'm tense. Though apparently I do whip out the vocabulary words.
The other thing is the cats, who are mercifully occupied right now, but the minute I finish typing this sentence extolling their virtues, will return to waltzing across my keyboard or chewing on my fingers. Oh, and someone just ran into a box. I'm betting it was Pegasus. *gallop gallop gallop gallop CLUNK* *gallop gallop gallop CRASH* *gallop gallop gallop gallop sound of plastic bags being run into and played with*
Nearly there. I can see the ending. Of today. Which I should have finished writing over an hour ago. So, actually, I see the ending behind me. Glimmering. And the next ending glimmering somewhere tomorrow. Once I can think of what I'm going to talk about tomorrow. "Today, I thought about packing a box. We don't have any boxes."
OH, SWEET WORD COUNT MET!
Word Count: 1013
This is the first entry for this journal. It is so far an empty journal, because it is the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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tonkssunshine.
The first *actual* entry will go up on January 1st, and will include the word count for the day (public) and the written content (public/protected, depending on the content).
I'm pledging to write 350,000 words this year, and I think I can do it!
Also, I am *not* a robot.
getyourwordsout journal fortonkssunshine.The first *actual* entry will go up on January 1st, and will include the word count for the day (public) and the written content (public/protected, depending on the content).
I'm pledging to write 350,000 words this year, and I think I can do it!
Also, I am *not* a robot.
