"Why can't we be friends? Why can't we be friends..."

[kittydesade]

So. Does anyone out there have a good program or

Never mind that. I can't use it until or unless I get a job, and therefore they money for a new and better computer. So I'll settle for writing songs on notepaper and composing the music on my guitar. At least it's a good guitar.

I've gone on a random friending spree, which seems to involve adding people who look interesting or who I vaguely recognize from comments in mutual friends' journal. Let me know if you are one of these new random friends and it bothers you and I shall remove you. Likewise, let me know if you wish to be added to my writing journal, pawprintletters. Or, as a third option, let me know if you think there is someone else nifty I should add as a friend. And as a result of all of this mess, I now want to watch Lethal Weapon 4. Hmm.

I've almost finished editing Different. Didn't get as far today as I wanted due to abruptly realizing that it greatly complicates things for Jack Street to have a roommate. Bollocks. Ah well, it also greatly simplifies things for Jack Street to have a female friend in the band. So I suppose it all balances it out. With luck the minor edits will be completed tomorrow, and then the major surgery can begin. And I need to figure out which plotlines I'm going to keep, which I'm going to scrap (the one about the club's owner is the first thing to go), which one is going to dominate and which will roll. Pfui.

Tomorrow we have fun with the weather, and looking outside to determine if it is in fact safe to venture out on the roads, or if I should stay home and forgo both the Writer's Market book and being rear-ended by some jackass who can't drive in snow. I suspect, given that the forecast was all manner of fun with the snow and rain and sleet and ice, that the choice will be 'stay home.' Which is cool. I can go later in the week, especially since I have taken the opportunity to renew my library books online and therefore don't have to return them until February.

Nightmares last night. I'm almost afraid to go to bed now, the goddamn dreams have been coming thick and fast, none of them pleasant. Why can't I ever dream about anything pleasant? Why is it always flood and fire and 30 foot waves obliterating my wonderful beach-house home? Why can't I dream about, say, hot chocolate and scintillating conversation with Richard Belzer and Chris Meloni? Or better yet, something nice and steamy and loud and vibrant with my current object of musical obssession, Raymond Watts? Or at the very least, why can't they be the sorts of dreams that carry the vivid signature of a story in the making?

I hate you, brain.