Not At All Like Julia Child

A special cocktail of Daylight Savings/fucking cat related sleep deprivation and proofreading some of the shittiest proofs known to humans in utter monastic silence has left my brain the consistency of room temperature tapioca. I feel weird, y’all. Extra squirrely weird. I should probably have just say to hell with it and gone to bed, but I didn’t because I had adulting to do tonight. We’re talking kitchen cleaning, laundry, and baking an apple cake for the work St. Patty’s day bakeoff.

                Why? Because I want some goodies. Also, my entire house smells like apple cinnamon wonderfulness right now. And, it’s a good excuse to drink wine. Is there wine in my cake? Hell no. But that never stopped Julia Child from tying one on of a rainy and blusterous Tuesday evening, and it sure as shit isn’t going to stop me. Box wine 4 lyfe!

                All in all, I feel rather proud of myself today. I worked hard, I made something tasty, and I totally zeroed out my sweet conservative husband’s vote. (For the record, he thinks Trump is an absolute cockwaffle as well.) I feel almost capable of giving myself a pat on ye olde back. But that would necessitate loosening my death grip on my grown ass woman’s juice box. And that just ain’t happening. 

Touch My Wine, And I Will Cut You

                Oooh. I just had an amazing idea. What if my work cooler were filled with chardonnay instead of water? I swear, I would work so much more effectively with a buzz on. I might not even give much of a shit about the nearly mind-bending levels of boredom entailed in working in a cube farm. Also, it might make certain people less dickish, though I wouldn’t put  money on it. Food for thought.

                Seriously, I don’t have much to say this week. I’ve been working on a lot of great world-building and back stories for a few of my writing/game projects, and that’s been fun and productive, but it’s not easy to blog about yet. Early days. Let’s just say, I’m finding all sorts of nifty ways to bring super gritty grimdark urban fantasy into D&D and leave it at that. I’ve also been doing a lot more art stuff.

                As a matter of fact, I decided to make an illustration of the fat three year olds who like to jump on my chest gleefully whenever I decide to step out of my comfort zone, which is apparently just a blanket fort well supplied with box wine. So here it is. I call them Humphry and Hunny, and they’re yours to enjoy. Apologies for the crap quality of the image. I need a scanner. 

Sleep Tight! We're Coming To Get You!