I have this tendency to blunder in and out of people's lives at fairly random intervals. Most of the time they don't call or write, unless they're Mad Andrew or a Spork. Two months go by and not a word passes twixt me and Paul, then wham I call him up to solicit his native-Midwestern-dialect grammaticality judgment on some sample sentences for this syntax midterm and we end up yammering for 2.5 hours. Am I disposable, or do people expect this sort of stage magicianry from me? If the latter, why?

I made a list of major (ie booklength/series-length) projects I have in various stages of incompletion and counted 19, an even 20 if you count the nonfiction. I made a list of short-story-to-novella-length projects I have in various stages of incompletion and counted 24. I think I'm missing some short pieces, though. Still. This is overwhelming if you consider just how much work that is, damning if you consider just how much Harlan Ellison's written in his life (1700 short stories alone).

I can survive but it may be a long time before I am both comfortable and self-supporting. Actually, you can make that just comfortable; I am not comfortable if I am not self-supporting.

I miss whispering into a sleeping man's ear incoherent things he will not hear me say.

We are all on treadmills; there is no danger in lengthening our strides.

My dreams have been vivid and annoying. For the last two weeks I have dreamt that various exes tried to get back in contact with me for one reason or another. In one dream, the goal wasn't even to try to get me to go out with him again -- he just wanted to be in contact for the sole reason that it bothered and distracted me. Then, last night, I dreamed that I went to a convention to meet up with Maria, and for some reason I had constructed a very elaborate costume. Of an iguana. She was late, our initial POC fell through, and somewhat later on I heard from someone that they had seen her, so I went off to find her. There was about an hour until the masquerade was supposed to start. At some point during my search I discovered that I had grown antlers. "I can't wear my costume if I've got antlers," I thought, and was very upset.

If I have to have vivid dreams, why can't they at least be of sex?

Actually, no, I'm not drunk.