Your word for today is hiatus. As in "My, there's such a big hiatus between this dude's posts!"

So, I was going to make a big post about how you shouldn't expect a lot of posts from me because Nanowrimo is coming up (TONIGHT! MIDNIGHT! YES!)...
and then I realized that you probably haven't been expecting a lot (read: any)posts from me, because the last post was on the 16th. Of October.

I'm wearing a really short black dress and wings while sitting on the floor of a friend's dorm room typing this post watching Strangers, or The Strangers, or whatever this movie is called, but I'm not paying a whole lot of attention because I also have Nanowrimo.org up on my computer, along with House M.D. and I'm probably going to pull up Facebook any second as well. Also, I'm thinking that I really want a donut...but to get the donut, I have to go into my room and open the fridge.
And my back kind of hurts from sitting the way I'm sitting, but to be able to lean back, I have to take off the wings.

I think that the creepiest thing about this movie is the weird repetitive soundtrack.

I'd be a lot more interested in what was going to happen if I had popcorn and didn't have my laptop.

Eh. I'm going to take off my wings. My back totally hurts. XP

NANOWRIMO!

Your word for this week is Anachronism. Use it every way you can.

If you must know, I am writing this in order to make me feel productive because I'm not doing my homework.
Just so you know.

Do not expect anything of real content.

I am happy today. While at the same time not happy.
I guess I'm normal today.

So this is what it feels like.

It is very unbearably hot here. Especially for someone who curls, and used to work in the packaging area of a cheese plant.

My parents have left after family weekend.
However, they did bring me cheese. And banana bread. And CDs. And skirts. And took me grocery-shopping. And demonstrated their love for me in as materialistic a way as I could want.
:D

I have a friend who is coming to visit me soon, via bus.
If a person who works in greyhound is reading this, I am upset with you because you very nearly forced her not to come, because of your exorbitant round-trip prices from her town to my town and back again.
So grr.
When I rule the world, there's gonna be some price slashing.

However, it is now worked out.

Said friend's birthday is also tomorrow. Go over here and wish her a happy birthday. Tell her Moss sent you.

My Creative Writing Club was pretty much a success. I hope for more people next meeting. I will bring cookies. :D

However, I also have to work on a Model Constitution for our group, which is a royal pain in the ass, mainly because most things referred to really don't apply to our group.

But I have Caramel Rice Cakes, which is good.

The battery in my MP3 player is virtually dead.

But I now have six billion songs on my laptop.

And I found a fun web comic. Go Here.
It is very fun.

Hmm. That is about it.

Besides This. Do It.

Nanowrimo!

The smell of ink.
The feel of paper.
The smell of burning circuits as your brain fries itself due to looking at a computer screen on way too much caffeine for way too long.

Yes, children, nanowrimo is coming up.
And by nanowrimo, I mean the awesomest thing to come out of november ever including Marie Antoinette, Matthew MacConaughey, and Madame Curie combined.

50,000 words in 30 days, man.
Y'should do it.

Starting on November 1st, I will go insane. And very likely disappear from the Internet...except for this bit of Internet.

That's really all I had to say.

Except...
Not half an hour ago, someone came by my room and gave me a cookie. Chocolate Chip. And milk.
For no reason other than the fact that she really wanted to bake something.
I love college.


The cookie tasted delicious, by the way. So did the milk.

Promises....

As I've said before, I write stuff.
And a friend of mine (Anna's Blog) asked me recently if I could post one of my stories up here.
So I will.
That said, if I am gracing you (the general public) with my hard work, you (the general public) will not steal my stuff or I (the author) will be pissed and stop posting stories so that you (the general public) will be deprived of my magnificence.
Got that?
Awesome.
I will also say that these stories are almost definitely NOT autobiographical.
This particular story was one that I wrote, almost in its entirety, during Nanowrimo last year.

Dreamer
Chapter 1:

Dreaming…
Except he wasn’t, was he? His previous dreams were terrifying, filled with violence and terror, and he could always smell the sickening coppery tang of blood.
So dreaming wasn’t an option. But, still, there was that sense of disconnection from life, as though it wasn’t real. He struggled for memories, possible explanations to this discrepancy.
Nothing.
His heart hammered in his chest. Just a few times, just enough to bring his thoughts out of himself and the terrifyingly blank void inside his head.
He was standing outside of a door, one with wood paneling. The porch that he was standing on was made of a darker, probably stained wood that blended in well with the night.
His hand was in his coat pocket.
In the pocket, there was a gun.
He could recognize the feel of the cold, cold metal easily, which led him to believe that it was his own.
It had not been fired yet.
The information rose to the surface of his mind slowly, and the word “yet” worried him.
A voice spoke into his ear, and he jumped. “Target is coming to the front door. Over.” It was tinny, and echoed in his ear. He reached up to his ear with the hand that didn’t have the gun.
He couldn’t. He could feel the hand; feel how it rested against his jeans.
But he couldn’t move it.
He tried to move his other hand, to move it away from the gun.
He couldn’t move it.
His heart started to hammer again, and he tried, desperately, to move any limb.
But he remained, standing casually (at ease, his brain supplied) by the door, his left hand in a pocket with a gun inside. His mind gave him an answer – that he was still dreaming – that this was just a more sophisticated, horrible dream than he’d had before.
But in his heart, he knew the truth.
The door opened.
The voice in his ear came to life again. “Now.” And his hand began moving of its own will. He tried to stop its upward motion, tried to stop the easy movement of the gun upwards…
And couldn’t.
Something of his desperation must have been reflected in his eyes, because the small, pretty woman who had opened the door had paused midway through her greeting, confusion showing on her face.
And then she saw the gun.
She started to close the door, but his trigger finger tightened, and the gun went off.
He fell back into his own mind in self-defense of what he had done – what he could not prevent – into dreaming and darkness.