Today I’m pretty sick.  Went to the doctor’s and got some meds at Rite Aid.  Ate at the Keg but got full fast.

I have been ill since last Thursday, October 24.  This does not make me happy.  My eyes hurt. They are very, very red and the eye drops I squeeze into them causes them to be dry and then they burn.  The left eye lid is swollen. 

Currently I am a volcano of goo erupting from my eyes, nose and chest.  This is disgusting for a woman who feels that any discussion or noise of a bodily issue is best kept behind locked doors and never shared. Vicki has been patient.  Our time is running out.  Its a bummer to be sick.  Hopefully this will all be better on Sunday when I take off for Detroit. 

Whine, whine, whine — it’s true.  I am whining.   

I thought it high time for me to write something new.  The scummy grunge has finally passed leaving only a cough behind.  Tomorrow is November 30.  Amazing how time has flown though at times being far from home has seemed to drag on and on.  At last our eyes are turned onto Seattle, maybe purchasing a home.  At last.  Roots.  I have missed my life in Seattle.  To return and find a routine again is a great desire in my heart. 

Tonight I am hungry.  The time is 1:30 a.m.  Supper was last tonight as I went out to eat. Doug was late.  This will cause me trouble tomorrow with blood sugar.  It doesn’t matter that I ate salad and grilled salmon sans sauces.  After drinking a diet coke who knows when sleep will bam me over the head with a hammer.  I noticed on Friday nights TMC Channel shows Cult Films hosted by Rob Zombie. Maybe I will tune in one of these Fridays. Cult films can be gross, exciting, disturbing and even schlock.  Schlock is always a riot. Unless the material really sucks. Yet, as you pointed out to me Evil One, someone wrote that schlock, someone directed it, filmed it, edited it, and acted in the roles.  Each person involved speaks with great pride of their schlock. No matter how stinky winky the film was.  I want to feel that way about our writing.  I don’t care about that summer writers conference, that dreadful experience that damaged us creativily.  Until that terrible moment we were moving through our books with good speed and enjoyment. I want that back again, our magic. Writing for pleasure. Writing for fun. Writing because it feels good to work on a chapter and IM it back to you.  Because it is bliss to bounce a file slathered with sex, banter, or terror back and forth between us.  I do not care if our work ever meets other eyes.  I do not care if our writing is perfect, or correct, or if we have 10 chapters or 100.  If we have 200 pages or a 1,000.  I don’t care if all the words are perfect choices or if a lady ghost writer across the table has no idea what the word correctitude means.  I want to write for you. I want to make you feel things. Whether those emotions are sorrow, grief, pain, desire, hot! hot! hot! or anger, rage, joy, laughter or even disgust.  I want you on the page beside me.  This silence of our creativity is not okay.  And it saddens me that big crude feet stormed our sandbox, stomped flat our sandcastle, and kicked sand over us.  This is our world. We populate it.  We rule it. We are the gods. Our character’s fates lie in our hands.  This I miss. The lack of writing with you has created a hole.  At least for me. I don’t care about Ashlyn and Stefan. For me they are finished. They were finished in 2005.  Okay, the writing wasn’t perfect. Indeed some places really sucked.  I don’t care.  I want something new. Something fresh. Something exciting to fill in the times when we are separate.  This is me.

Thank you for refreshing my memory as to how this web page works.  Your instructions have been duly noted and saved in a place where I will not lose them. Now I am signing off. The time is almost 2:00 am.  Tomorrow the storm hits us.  Only the weather maps continue showing rain only.  Maybe some light snowshowers on Friday. Nothing like what smothered Denver.  Though being smothered for a night would be beautiful.  I know, I know.  I am a sadistic nut.  You guys have all the snow!!!!  Hahahaha.  Goodnight, Vicki    

This theme is very, very, well appears to be the place Father Giovanni believes himself to have fallen into and now lives in.  Hell.  So red.  But hey, its something different, right?  I think I will keep it just for that dramatic effect.