Musings on Lonely Saturday

I think I know why real writers are such raging alcoholics. I've had writer's block for a couple of weeks, one good stiff drink and suddenly the words are just flowing out, ironically on the subject of Dram Shop laws. I can see how it could become a crutch to someone who had to deal with writing deadlines all the time.

My current in-between hair has a name: the McVinci. It's not making me any fonder of it or making the thought of chopping it all off at 2 a.m. any less attractive. Right now the fact that I can finally put it up again doesn't seem to matter much anymore.

When you have a Jack Russell Terrorist watching a movie about a dog isn't a good idea. Unless you want to watch your dog freak out and bark at the TV for a couple of hours.

Speaking of writing, why do I have ideas for about five good erotic stories now that I have no time to write any of them? Contracts and trial notebooks: blocked. Steamy tales: the ideas just flow. Which is ironic considering....

I'm considering celibacy again. Of course I am...it's goddamn tax season....

Which is when I have my 'And why do I want him anyway?!' moments where I try to figure out if he has no idea how much he hurts me when he makes plans he doesn't keep or if that's the intent. After all, every once in awhile you have to show who's the boss.

And that's a game I don't care to play.