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Cooking some dinner for roommates and guest, got in some good time at the gym, good books have arrived, need to prep for tomorrow and get some sleep. Also, currently reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. Quite fun.

Sorted things out this weekend. It was a pretty shotgun of a week, and I had roommate stuff and relationship stuff to work out. The house is stocked up with victuals once again, we’ve got a week-night cooking schedule worked out, and I’m feeling level-headed enough to get back to the gym (I only went

Sam Adams sucks. Negra Modelo is still the Best.

My roomie was pretty productive yesterday, and sent me lots of links for amusement: Curvy Butts Are Great. As someone who’s got a pretty bony ass, I can tell you, I’d much prefer having some more cushioning down there. Luckily, Comcast isn’t our internet provider anymore. And, Bitch Ph.D. already posted about this one, but

I need some coffeeeeeeee.

Work tends to fuck me off a lot more when I’m tired and irritated. I’m going to go do something useful and write. I’ve decided to take up meditating to control some of this anger and irritation and stress, cause it ain’t going away anytime soon. In the meantime, here’s some more Alaska-themed breathing space:

Dear Viagra guy: Shut the fuck up. I do not want to talk to you. In fact, after two days of up-and-down hysterical roommate antics, long hysterical conversations with the boyfriend last night, five more freaked-out e-mails from said boyfriend this morning, and an out-of-bed alarm at 5:30 in the morning, I really have NO

Because writing is healthy, and hot damn, this is turning out to be a great book. For your workaday breathing space, I give you random pics of Alaskan abodes, which I’ve been thinking of ever since I wrote this post:

I was at the gym yesterday and saw a guy there who was probably close to 400 lbs. Obviously, this doesn’t happen often, or it wouldn’t be cause for comment. He was diligently using the lat pulldown and a series of other pull-strength exercises. He used a balance ball to sit on because, well, the

It’s good to know that other writers felt like this: The teenage me was cast into deep, dark despair by this. On my seventeenth birthday I had a midlife crisis. There I was seventeen years old and still no novel published! I was a complete and utter failure! What was wrong with me?