rosa_acicularis: (tempest)
Like, now, please.

Still without wireless at the old homestead, and, after a month or so of deprivation, have been weaned from my addiction. No, really. I think that I may no longer be obsessed with Doctor Who

This is not an acceptable situation. )

*twitches*

Jul. 5th, 2008 02:30 pm
rosa_acicularis: (ahh cheese)
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD AND HER INSOMNIAC COUSIN JIM WHERE IS THE EPISODE?

Sorry. Just needed to get that out of my system.
rosa_acicularis: (pivot)
I have some complaints. Not terribly rational complaints, but complaints nonetheless. They are as follows:

1. Why, oh why am I always the last one to watch a new episode of Who? *glares at download*

2. After a day spent begging every likely employer in the neighborhood to at least glance at my resume, I have come to the conclusion that I will be sad, nannying, and broke for the remainder of my colorful but ultimately fruitless life.

3. I was supposed to sit for Kate and Sophie tonight, but their mom just canceled.

4. I should move. I need to move. I want to move. I want to move into the pretty green house on the pretty street and live with nice roommates who are nice and not imaginary like the ones I have now. I met the roommates today, and they were nice and thought I was nice. The landlord? I'm not so sure. (Doesn't she realize that I am universally loved wherever I go?)

5. The NBC website won't let me watch 30 Rock or The Office without skipping in a way that is sure to send me into a homicidal rampage.

6. My left foot itches.

7. I've run out of complaints.

rosa_acicularis: (fozzie bear)
I've got myself all in a tizzy about this employment ad I saw today. A local theatre company is looking for playwrights, and though I am skeptical, I have come to the realization that there is no earthly reason why I shouldn't at least apply. I mean, the idea of actually getting paid to write is...well, you know, tizzy-making. Thing is, they're asking for a writing sample of ten pages or less, and this means I have three problems:

1. Very few things in my theatre portfolio (such as it is) are that short.

2. Everything in my theatre portfolio is at least two years old.

3. I was an idiot two years ago and I hate everything in my theatre portfolio.

and 

4. I haven't written any original work in a VERY LONG TIME, and I think I may have kinda sorta forgotten how.

Think they'd accept macros instead?
rosa_acicularis: (pissed wendy)
1. Too much fic that needs writing. ([profile] doctor_rose_las entry due today, for the love of Mike!)

2. Too many spoilers to which I flatly refuse to expose myself.

3. Not enough ice cream. (Or any at all, actually, which is rather tragic.)


I am distinctly not happy with how I'm writing this week. It's making me more cranky than usual.

*plays the world's tiniest violin as musical accompaniment to own whining*

brrr.

Jan. 23rd, 2008 06:08 pm
rosa_acicularis: (tempest)
I fear my feet will never be warm again.
rosa_acicularis: (pink and yellow)
Ah, but where to begin?

Of course. A top ten.

These )

ETA: Safari, my patience with you wanes.
rosa_acicularis: (marvin)
My lungs make a strange squeaking sound every time I exhale. That's...not so good, is it?

like, ew.

Nov. 5th, 2007 07:16 pm
rosa_acicularis: (ahh cheese)
I've been in denial for the last 24 hours or so, but the time has come to face the cold, hard, icky truth -

I'm sick.

The funny thing is, I'm actually sort of shocked.

I know, I know - I've been asking for it for nearly two months now, with the not-sleeping and not-eating, but I was He-Man. I was invincible. I had game.

Now I have nausea. Also, a fever, a headache, and the creeping suspicion that any moment my insides are about to become my outsides. And now I'm going to have money problems. Because when you work with tiny babies, toughing it out is simply not an option. So there goes the forty-seven jobs I had lined up for the next three days.

I'm a whiny little thing tonight, aren't I? I do apologize. In happier news, my beloved aunt took pity on me and brought me all sorts of yummy groceries. I have asparagus and popcorn and these crazy mutant apples that are about the size of my head. Which is slightly worrying, actually, but I've decided to embrace the mutantness.

Only, the idea of eating anything ever again sort of makes me want to die.

Ooh, boy. Not good.
rosa_acicularis: (ouch shoes)
All right, people. The rough draft of my thesis is due in exactly twenty-three hours, and I'm about one independent clause away from hurling myself from the roof of the library, shouting, "I can fly! I can fly!" and clicking my heels together violently as I fall.

So this is me - desperate, insane, and sort of hungry. Remember me fondly when I am gone.

(Anybody have any thoughts on the cultural omnipresence of The Wizard of Oz and its significance in the American collective unconscious? What about immortality, sex, and death in children's literature? Anything? 'Cause that'd be awesome.)
rosa_acicularis: (Default)
...I finally changed my default icon. It's, like, the right size and shiny and stuff. I don't know if I can handle this.

Good god in heaven, what have I done?
rosa_acicularis: (sleepy)
Having a spare moment in which it occurred to me to dwell on such things, I did the arithmetic and discovered that in the past seven days, I have clocked twenty-one and a half hours of sleep. That's about three hours of sleep a night. And by 'night', I mean late afternoon or whenever I can no longer lift my head from my thesis desk.

This is not healthy. This is not reasonable behavior. But I can't cut back on my hours at work and I can't let up on my writing. Draft is due at the end of the month, and I'm just starting work on my last chapter. Something's got to give.

And apparently that something is my mental health. Yippee skippy.

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