It translates in my head as a distant weeping

The email I get that informs me that some few are still faithfully checking in, expecting me to say something. This both surprises and gratifies me.

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Life is...good. And I fuckin' hate that. Folk on their blogs that are all 'I'm wonderful, my wonderful wonderful is wonderful and wonderful is wonderful too.'

Well. Wouldn't say wonderful, necessary. As a strict interpretation of the word. I could do with one or two other adendums to la vida. But I'm not complaining.

Work - cushty. Destroys my ambition, though. Home. Sit. Aaaaah. I am keeping up with those people I can see in the Big Room. Most of them, anyhow. But many people are making reference to how busy I am. I worry that I'm saying something too often when I hear it echoed back.

Speaking of which, 'awesome' has got to go. Boring myself. 'Wicked' seems to be taking up the slack, though. It's just so very Grange Hill, however.

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I've taken shedloads of photos, but very few are making their way to Flickr. Haven't even dragged my lazy ass through to the desktop to process all those landscapes (to which the trusty laptop screamed and fell over).



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Christmas is coming. Hurrah for that, I say. Instead of bitching and groaning at all the pretty lights - and decorations which are in the shops an admitted far too frickin' early - I'm going to look forward to time spent pleasantly in fine company.

And shitloads of chocolate.

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Nice talkin' wit y'all, but I feel I may be babbling.

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Semper superne nitens,

C