![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupHey anyone who reads this journal. Sorry about that whole... LJ Idol bail I pulled. I forgot my dates so much, and didn't get my head in the game. I had an idea for Week 2 that just... didn't work out right. Then I completely blanked and didn't remember to write anything for the next two topics. Life has a strange way of getting in the way right when you need it not to.
November must just be my Fail Month. November is my birthday, so I tell myself that 24 was the Year of Living Dangerously; 25 must be the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Baudelaire wants me to embrace my inner lush. That was going well for me... until old drama returned. Until I found myself in old habits again. Until, like this weekend, I found myself in someone else's bed after a really, really good time, wondering whether now would be a good time to put my pants back on and if anyone can smell his cigarettes on me when I get to where I was supposed to be all along.
November is NaNoWriMo, so I write... precisely 1100 words of a novel that I've been kicking around in my head all year. The premise is good, I think -- everyone needs a Western from time to time. Faery getting involved is just bonus. I have it all sorted in my head. I just can't bring myself to focus enough to write it. Life getting in the way, as I said before. So even all the prompting communities that I have stored up (mini_nanowrimo, brigits_flame, origfic_bingo, etc), I only have a little bit written, and almost nothing to show for it.
And even for the holidays I don't celebrate, for the days at work where everyone's disappeared to say goodbye to a guy that I don't really think I met... I'm still here, entryless and trying to figure out if anyone is really paying attention out there in the ether, or if I'm like a tree falling in the forest with no one to hear.
So much for the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Somehow, I seem to have traded my alcohol back for furtive touches and a lack of purpose, for secret relationships and a lack of sleep. I hear bad decisions offer up good stories later on, at least.
November must just be my Fail Month. November is my birthday, so I tell myself that 24 was the Year of Living Dangerously; 25 must be the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Baudelaire wants me to embrace my inner lush. That was going well for me... until old drama returned. Until I found myself in old habits again. Until, like this weekend, I found myself in someone else's bed after a really, really good time, wondering whether now would be a good time to put my pants back on and if anyone can smell his cigarettes on me when I get to where I was supposed to be all along.
November is NaNoWriMo, so I write... precisely 1100 words of a novel that I've been kicking around in my head all year. The premise is good, I think -- everyone needs a Western from time to time. Faery getting involved is just bonus. I have it all sorted in my head. I just can't bring myself to focus enough to write it. Life getting in the way, as I said before. So even all the prompting communities that I have stored up (mini_nanowrimo, brigits_flame, origfic_bingo, etc), I only have a little bit written, and almost nothing to show for it.
And even for the holidays I don't celebrate, for the days at work where everyone's disappeared to say goodbye to a guy that I don't really think I met... I'm still here, entryless and trying to figure out if anyone is really paying attention out there in the ether, or if I'm like a tree falling in the forest with no one to hear.
So much for the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Somehow, I seem to have traded my alcohol back for furtive touches and a lack of purpose, for secret relationships and a lack of sleep. I hear bad decisions offer up good stories later on, at least.
