SOS

I feel like writing another book.

I never finished the one I started in November. I blame that on two reasons -- primarily I had no time for writing a book. But -- but more importantly -- I showed it to someone while it was still in progress. I should know by now that there is no quicker way to kill a writing streak.

I'm stuck (I guess you can call it stuck) with this new idea now, and I sorta know where it goes and I really know how it gets there, but I still don't have time to write.

I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow (but we still haven't packed) and I'm planning on taking this laptop (which has the screen the memory from the other Toshiba laptop I raged about a few weeks ago grafted onto the butt-end of a better, fancier Toshiba laptop I mistakenly ordered from Ebay thinking it was the same as the one I already had), a guitar, some headphones, and definitely a DVD player.

See, we're going to the beach, so I have to be prepared for all sorts of indoor activities. That's just the way it works. After all, I want to enjoy my vacation, too. And I like the beach, but not as much as other people do. I get tired of Sandy Crack really fast.

So maybe I will have time to write some book on my vacation. You know, while I watch all six Star Wars movies and write an album full of drum-machine-metal songs and watch the baby for 19 hours a day. I'm sure that'll work out just fine.

My wife wants to know if I'm sad about watching the baby.

I think she is stupid.

One time when she was xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxor injured or whatever.

Now she's telling me I can't post this on the Internet. And I shouldn't be a fucking asshole and she's gonna be fucking pissed.

She shouldn't say such things if she doesn't want them known around the world. Or at least as far as the three people who might find this. Damn censor.

Stramby:
it's what's for dinner