My mojo. Let me show you it.

[desperance]

Well, of course I couldn't find my mojo; it wasn't here. It was - naturally! - just exactly where I had left it: in the Silence Room of the Lit & Phil.

In a swift rearrangement of my day, I took a flask of coffee and the LHP in there, and lo. Two pages later, this story is yielding up its marrow at last. I don't think it's any good, but that's okay; I'm allowed to write crap, so long as I'm writing.

Now I am home, though, and my thumb is hurting. I am going to swallow chemicals and a ham sammich (well, a smoked-loin-of-pork sammich, which I boiled it this morning; boiling I can manage, and frying too; chopping, not so much), and read Agatha Christie on old-style archaeology (it's research! it leads to steam-camels!!), and then watch wuxia pian because I can, because la_marquise_de enables me. (My enabler. Let me show you her.)

Comments

[mantichore.livejournal.com]

Fee fie fo fum, I smell the typing of an Englishman.

Wasn't typing fiercely forbidden in order to let some thumb or other to rest and prosper a bit?

(Why am I even asking?)