December 22, 2003 @ 11:36 p.m.
Back in Black

What the fuck was I thinking?

I'm back, baby, and I want your soul.

After giving things a lot of thought, and after being yelled at a lot by many different people (apparently aggro will get you everywhere), I've decided that it ain't time to put this puppy down, not just yet.

This particular decision was actually made a little while ago, but I've been having a bit of trouble with my ability to write even remotely interesting journal-type pieces. I think my muse is off blowing Fred Durst or something. Yes, Britney Spears is my muse.

So I've used my time away to channel some creativity into some other things that needed my attention, and I've been quite the productive little chicky. I've done a lot of work on an erotic story I've been writing for a while now, one that I plan on submitting to an anthology. If it's accepted, it will earn me a lot of money, which is a good thing, despite what my sixteen year old self would say. But, you know, sometime in the last five years I learned to bend over and spread my cheeks for capitalism, and I've never looked back (just in case I turn into a pillar of salt, y'know). I think this happened around the time I moved out of home and suddenly had to support myself. On the negative side I had to start paying for things like rent and food, but on the plus side I was suddenly able to afford life's little necessities, like leather corsets and lots of books filled with pictures of naked ladies.

Anyway, I was telling you about my story. I wrote the first draft of it as a pervy seventeen year old, and am enjoying revising it as an equally-if-not-more pervy 21 year old. Working on it the other day, I found myself really getting into the swing of things, as it were. It wasn't just the fact that the particular scenarios still have a big sway over me, either; I was genuinely getting into my own writing, and the more I wrote, the more aroused I got. Is the fact that I was getting off on my own writing proof that I'm a good erotic fiction writer, or is it merely narcissistic? Stuart says the second, but I have decided not to listen to him anymore, because I have realised what everyone else has apparently known for a long time and haven't had the heart to tell me: that he has a chronic inability to look me in the eyes. Or as my friend Shan put it "Stuart is on crack and he stares at your boobs ALL THE TIME!"

Things roll on much the same as ever. I gallivanted interstate for a while, but then I had to gallivant back. Stupid job. I'm working way to much and I hate everyone and everything. I am a bubbling pot of rage! I'm so going to cut someone soon, I can feel it. I think it's the Christmas spirit getting to me.

Deirdre had "Blame it on the Boogie" stuck in her head before, so I very helpfully got it out for her. By singing "She Bangs". Of which the only lyrics I know are "She bangs, she bangs, ooh baby". Deirdre loves me forever now.

So, in conclusion: I'm here, I'm queer, it's time for more beer.

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