Today was to be the day of apocalypse. In my novel, yo. So, um...it turns out that at least in this draft, without you know, incredibly detailed end-of-the-world-porn and statistics and whatnot, the apocalypse takes about 500 words from a 2nd tier character. (Oh, did I mention I now loathe my leads? The shiny-happy-lovers-who-will-suffer, writing them is so alien. They're, y'know - normal.)
So, what did I do today? Got dragged to hellmart, wherein I searched out the Sparklepire Barbies (ok, I only actually found the Edward doll,) because, as I've mentioned before: A. Yes, Robert Pattison is dreamy and, B. I find Cleolinda's Twilight recaps and analysis, along with The Secret Life of Dolls, to be endlessly entertaining. (Also, incredibly insightful. There are manymanymanymany VERY IMPORTANT reasons, why we should be concerned that this is the stuff young girls and grown-ass women are taking as a romantic model.) I had to see if this thing really, reallyreally sparkled.
It does. It has baaaaad hair and looks basically nothing like poor Rob Pattinson, but, it does freakin' sparkle in the glorious fluorescent lighting of hellmart. I've also decided that carrying a sparklepire around hellmart is a perfectly valid coping mechanism to deal with the grotesquery contained within the big box walls.
(Why do I go there, you ask? Well, it's one-stop shopping. It's not cheaper. You'll see from the link that the toy place is actually five dollars less than hellmart, and it comes with additional swag. So take that.)
Ok, so I'm eventually going to write scenes from the apocalypse from multiple perspectives, but at least I've got my nihilistic sort-of villain/anti-hero/whatev's point of view down. It's remarkably terse.
I also made a pretty damn good playlist of doom to help the mood along.
So, that's good.
Ooh, and my throat is no longer sore from the freaking hellacious allergy attack at work yesterday. (Fact, if you know me IRL, do NOT EVER. No, EVER, leave wite-out open in my presence unless you're trying to KILL me. Not kidding. Wite-out fumes cause me to have asthmatic-lose-voice-quick-choke-to-death bullshit allergic reactions. Idk why, it just does. Also...take it easy on perfume in the workplace, people. You do not need to get your glam smell on for work. Unless you're planning on fucking someone you work with. In which case: Freakin be more subtle, will ya?)
On a super up note, my day contained a good half hour of total hilarity. Deciding against the eek-squeak mousie on a line as being a little to realistic hunting practice for the kitten, (btw, the kitten is not named after a certain adoraklutz kinda psycho heroine, I just saw the name after three days of calling her, "kitty," and she was being a maniac dizzy little thing and I thought, "Dizzy Izzy." So...yeah: Isabella,) but got the BouncyMouse(tm). The BouncyMouse(tm) is neither bouncy, nor particularly freakin' mouse-y.
Isabella likes jingle-y things. (Messrs Jingles I & II, and the jingle-catnip-tiger tail-thingy-that-is-incredibly-phallic.)
It went something like this:
Me: Is-a-bell-a, look at the mousie!
Isabella: Whatevs. Oooh, Squirrel! (i.e., the dog's tail moving.)
Pumpkin: (saunters vaguely into the area of lap wars and preens) O hai.
Me: Pumpkin, LOOK, A BOUNCYMOUSE! (jiggling it in her direction,) Look at the mousie!
Pumpkin: (Doubletake at this pathetic poly-something pretend mouse,) Biatch, GTFO. That's not a mouse. I haz keeelt me some meeces and that's just weaksauce. Like, whatevs. (Saunters over to the sofa and preens some more.)
Me and Mom: Head asplode-y laughter until we cry.
Me: (attempt to lure Isabella again, collapses in hilarity, tries with Pumpkin again.)
Pumpkin: We have been there, done that. (Licks paw in my direction, the feline equivalent of flipping me off.)
Me and Mom: Fall out laughing for another ten minutes.