Writer's Block

Oh, bloody fucking

PANTS!

Writer's block (or more accurately WTF was going to happen next again? Bastard, fucking hell, fuck-fuck, cock, bastard PANTS!!!!!! what was I writing about just then?) sucks. So I shall drink more red wine and sacrifice a pair of socks to Artemis and pray that my muse (Clio, which really, is bloody fucking useless - what's the use of having a muse of history when you're writing contemporary science fiction?) shows up. Actually, I'd like all of them to show up - Calliope, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene and Polyhymnia, please report to my brain toot de damn sweet, si vous plais. Terpsichoreand Urania pouvoir cassez-vous und Thalia has never done me a damn bit of good anyway. Bunch of bloody faithless harpies, really. Except for the scary wings and claws and attacking the Argonauts.

Also, I hate April Fool's Day. The lot of you prank-pulling bastards can fuck off in reverse order of height. And my interior monologue sounds like Eddie Izzard. Which is fine until my interior monologue starts asking for a pair of stiletto heels.

PANTS.