I'm not the only dust my mother raised.

I am tipsy with pre-birthday booze, snuggled in an armchair by the wood stove (a wood stove in a log cabin, and a log cabin on the side of a mountain, a mountain under the stars), and I'm writing fan fic.

Life is really quite lovely, sometimes, isn't it?

Also, there's a little lost bat chirping in the eaves just over my head. I've got a butterfly net ready for when he emerges, and I shall return him to the night whence he came. "Be free, my cheeld-ren of the niiiight!"

*has seen Dracula a few too many times*

(I would continue by quoting that immortal (hee) line: "I never drink...wine."  However, given my current condition, that would be a patent untruth.)