The Demonweasel Speaks

I woke up behind the 8 today and I just hate when that happens. No, that’s weak language. I fucking loathe that, and I want to restore my last saved game and start the day over again.

Not depressed, not angry, not bored…something else. Can’t place it, don’t even really want to try. I’d been doing a pretty good job of at least waking up and being aware in the morning, getting Kenzie off to work, having my coffee, working out, watching Daily Show/Colbert Report/Sportscenter/whatever, and then doing some writing. Today, not so much. Coffee and Kenzie yes, but the rest…ugh. Didn’t want to exercise, didn’t want to even watch TV. Writing? Cracker, please. I ended up just trying to investigate agents and getting thoroughly discouraged in the process.

I feel like the only way to assure representation, publication, fame & fortune is to grab a shotgun and go rampaging through the streets blowing up mailboxes, frightening children and stealing candy. Then, when the Man comes for me and shackles me and takes me away, I can yell at the assembled news crews “I’m an author seeking representation! It’s a thrilling first novel about love, destiny, and someone’s place in the universe! The main charact…ow, ow, watch my head! Officer, the cuffs are hurting me, and I like to talk with my hands!”

But at least I’m writing in here more right? Like I told Chris, there’s no such thing as bad writing, except bad writing. I write here now more because I’m actually awake in the mornings and I have time to do stuff, but really, who reads? Kenzie, Chris, my parents, Jennifer, people looking for MySpace layouts (look, there’s another one!). It’s kind of like probing the universe, sending out messages in a bottle and hoping the get back…something. The Big Gun or the Good Package, who knows.

Fast internet helps with my whole “CSI: Literary Agency Internet Investigations” squad, but then again, it’s the goddam internet and it’s filled with whackos and cheats. No agents, not publishers, not artists…something else. What warp factor 7 internet has gotten me is movie trailers and music downloads that might not actually suck. I spent this morning assembling a superteam of OkGo (because Kenzie was on their webpage last night), the Ramones (because they’ve been talking about them on Entourage), that Supermassive Black Hole song (which Kenzie has asured me that we like) and Johnny Cash (because he’s Johnny FUCKING Cash). The Vibe, Steel and Gypsy of this team have been a horrible remix of the horrible Gwen Stefani Bananas song (which I had to remember to spell “bananas”), a big rap song to the music of the Transformers theme and a version of Barbie Girl about GI Joes. Look for this Detroit League to fight the Royal Flush gang next never.

Not obscure, not geeky, not the JLA…something else.

So I should to work, although I just remembered that I taped Deadwood last night, after having a plot point spoiled for me by my Google reader (someone dies!). I know I won’t be back before Allie gets here, and let’s not have the 9-year old calling everyone a cocksucker, ‘kay? See, that’s the kind of day I’m having, mood I’m in, dirty jeans I’m wearing.

Something else.