gah!!!

Editors! Nag, nag, nag. Then, when they get what they want,-nothing. Dead silence. Some of them treat you like a one-night-stand they are ashamed they ever had. I understand being busy-I really do. But come the fuck on. Months go by. And the kicker is, most of them are also writers, so they KNOW they are treating you like shit. It's just so rude. And I'm sure I'm the bitch for complaining about it, but that's okay. It's a role I'm getting used to playing.

Seriously though. I only have so much patience. "All I'm asking for-is a little repect."

Okay. I feel better now. Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

BUT I DON'T WANNA!!!!

Can you hear me whining/screaming that from wherever you are in the world? If not, that's pretty surprising.

I'm editing a book (my own) which is never fun. Making the changes that an editor has requested isn't the problem though. It's the fact that, if I'm working on a book I haven't read for a while, then I want to change EVERYTHING. I can't believe I wrote such crap. Must make it prettier, nicer, more gory, less gory, italics or no italics? What was I thinking!!!???

Yeah, that's my job. If you want to trade, I'm open to discussing it.

Here's something off the subject:

I wonder how guys feel about being called "son" by other guys-particularly ones who are not their fathers or grandfathers. I think that would annoy me. As in, "Put down the weapon, son." Or "Did you know you have a tail light out, son?" Or "TV will make you puke green chunks, son."

You get the idea.

That would drive me crazy. I think the female equivelant is "young lady," which I can't stand. It's so condescending. The last person to call me young lady was yelling at me and as a result I replied with "old man." It wasn't that long ago either. Maybe a few years. The guy is a serious asshole. Not a funny one. A SERIOUS one.

I'm just rambling in an attempt to avoid work. Did I mention I don't wanna?

Severe Rope Burn & Death

That's what's been happening with me lately. I was out walking my dog and she decided to run AT a car that was also running AT her. The leash locked in a weird way, so I grabbed at the rope part and then three of my fingers were practically smoking. The chucks taken out of two of them-well, let's just say the rope actually cauterized the wounds, it was moving so fast. Not sure if that's common or not, but it's the first time it ever happened to me. The whole time this was going on, I managed to continue having a conversation with one of my neighbors.

We were talking about another neighbor-a guy who I've shared a wall with for the last seven years and who had committed suicide the day before. No one really knows why he did it. His sandals are still sitting out on his back steps-his various gardening tools. I can look up at the window of his spare bedroom at night and see that his computer is still on, the monitor glowing just like always. All these little things. I think about him being on the other side of my wall, first desperate, then dying, then dead. And I was just going along like always, without a clue.

He was happy and cheerful all the time. Or, at least, he pretended he was. He certainly had me fooled.

I hope they're playing disco for him, wherever his is. He loved ABBA and had the license plate to prove it.

Oh, yeah. The dog is fine.