For some reason, the left side of my jaw has decided to fall back to a state of post-surgery swelling and soreness. In nothing short of an Abysmal Coincidence, this was paired yesterday with one of my only recorded major deadline fuck-ups.
Saddled with an article which I believed to be due by Friday at the earliest, I naturally was planning to never think about it ever, ever until the last possible minute (Microt? Nerd). Much to my surprise and subsequent woe, however, I learned Tuesday afternoon that it was actually due Monday: also known as a day that had already passed.
This wouldn’t have been an issue if it wasn’t such a bizarrely conceived (by Not Me) 1,400 word assignment. Flash forward to right now, which, depending on the accuracy of this post’s timestamp, should be Wednesday at around 8:15 am. Crisis averted thanks in no small part to the White Castle/Jabba’s Palace delicacy of jalapeno cheeseburgers and oversized energy drinks provided by a third party establishment. It’s funny how I don’t mind staying up late working on the script, but throw this shit at me and I need the digestible equivalent of corrosive acid to stay engaged.
It’s just too bad for you guys that blogger was being “2 Stubborn 2 Load” when I hit the most delirious point of the night.
2 thoughts on “Douchebag Daisenso”
When aristocratic amateur-sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey finds General Fentiman dead in his favourite chair, the dignified calm of the Bellona Club is shattered. A straightforward death by natural causes? Perhaps. but why can no-one remember seeing the General the day he died? And who is the mysterious Mr Oliver?. Moving between London and Paris, salon and suburbs, Lord Peter Wimsey unfolds an intriguing case and reveals all in one of Dorothy L. Sayers’ most popular mysteries. -Seeker Roccoe
You have officially become a man. Enjoy your testicles.