I can has story

I wrote, what, two hundred words? today: enough to maybe make this chapter work. I had more typos than ever. Mostly the number 3, even when the word had no W or E in it. Now that's a tidbit for a story: either a Dickian thing where the persistent typo opens up a process that reveals a cosmic conspiracy, or an alternate-worlds fantasy where the persistent typo is the byproduct of an embattled universe trying to score help.

My rec.arts.sf.composition friends: I'm lurking again. The reason I'm not actively participating is that I'll have to reinstall a decent program to read and respond with and there's no point in doing that on this computer, which I'm going to abandon as soon as I can work out excactly which of various strategies I'm going to employ in getting all our stuff migrated to Frank's computer. So anyway, I saw Wildepad stomping off in a huff because something he said provoked a political response that was apparently insulting -- what was that? It's safe to tell me here. And Alma -- if it was about that war, I can imagine what he said and why it was incendiary. You could also tell me whether anything came of that forensic anthropologist lady in Japan.


One of the mothers here said she's paying $790 a month for three days a week of infant care. That's more than Frank needs for all his living expenses each month. So things could be worse. My friend Mary is supporting her youngest in private college and her nephew in another college in another state, no financial aid for either of them. Things could be worse.

I am so completely screwing up this whole eating thing. I need rededication badly.