Final Draft keeps crashing on me. I haven't lost much yet, but I will if it keeps happening. I sent an email to Technical Support and now I take my chances. So I save obsessively. So much so that I just did it, and prematurely published this post. Rats.
I'm writing about monsters, about futility, a crack whore, a liar, and the Science of the Balance of Ultimate Power. Maybe that's what I'll call it. It has a nice ring. So now I feel tapped out, uncreative, uninspired. I put it all in those five pages, and tomorrow I'll read it and say, "Balls. This is terrible." And no one will know but me and the computer. Too bad it's a gossip. It spills its secrets with only a little prodding and a password cracker. So I'll say it again. Balls.
I'm drinking sweet wine that makes my mouth pucker and is the color of cotton candy. It's a reward for my diligence. Cultivate a brain cell, kill a brain cell. I had a couple brain cells volunteer to take one for the team, so don't feel bad.
Mommy needs her vitamins.
Er. Don't quote me. In fact, let's never speak of this again.
There's always more to say than what we say. This is the closest thing to telesending (one-way telepathy) we have. So, stranger know my thoughts. At least the surface ones. And I'll content myself to know they've been received, rejected, and regurgitated. And later I'll be surprised at how much I revealed without saying anything at all.
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