wildcat

Snacky!

Andrew's here, downstairs in fact, languidly attempting to get himself upright and perhaps on the way to the shower so that we might trundle off to Dairy Queen for one of their "cool treats" (never, ever their "hot eats") - that's right, log, a big log of ice cream and chocolate. I'm pulling for the raspberry flavour. At the same time as all of this, he's decided he's a southern belle from Georgia, beautiful people, he's named Bessie Mae (I came up with the name). So anyway, we're going to get this magical thing, this magical log thing, and then we're going to eat some and then I'm going to go to work for four hours - a mere four hour shift! - and meet downtown afterward with the unusual suspects (Michael, Michelle, Jojo) for Hero, this new-fangled Jet Li picture with the wire-walking and the siss-boom-baa. I'm encouraged about potentially attempting a hookah (or houkah).

I'm restarting the "Charlotte and the Wildcats" story, I'd like to have a draft written before I begin my three-day novel, which is not going to be the Johnny and Teiresias novel because I want to put that through the novel-writing class instead. The three-day novel is going to be some kind of a pulp-laden Kilgore Trout novel, not actually about Kilgore (who is, of course, wholly fictional) but just a ridiculous pulp story. The title "Kamikaze Women" lingers in my head from that Husbands and Wives Woody Allen fiasco, and I think that it might be the title of whatever drivel I write that long, long weekend. Thirty pages a day? I can manage that if I don't breathe or think about anything else. Meals by takeaway, of course.