Ack Tongue Baby

I've had a plant for a few years that I've managed to keep going against all odds. Sadly, anything I touch is ultimately doomed and it appears that my plant has had its day in the indirect sun. I'll keep it till it's completely brown -- perhaps even black. It's the very least I can do.

This is not an invitation to buy me some new plants for X'mas. I promise, if you give me anything that is alive, I will be its death sentence. I am the grim reaper.

I've been managing to get some work done. Turns out the way for me to be productive is to lock myself up for days on end without any human contact. I may be poor company, but I'm determined to make my deadlines, goddamn it.

I surrender to the fact that now is not a fun time for me. Work is not fun. Uncertainty is not fun. There are at least 11,000 members of the Writers Guild of America and I'm pretty sure that most of them are having more fun than me right now.

December, Twenty Oh-Six. I've had a good year. The kind of year I've been wanting for forever. I have surpassed almost all of my career expectations for this year. But Twenty Oh-Seven is going to be the bitch. That's when I find out if my flying-machine can really fly. Or if I'm fucked.

Place your bets...