I really should catch up on the past few days — the interminable hot weather, the holiday weekend, watching X-Files with Sam, me and Keeley working our way through Deadwood Season Two, my growing certainty that I have nerve damage in my foot, teaching Julia to cook this weekend, sorting through Cerebus from start to finish, the new kid at work, planning my funeral with the kids, worrying over poor sweet Keeley’s burned hands tonight — but it’s raining right now and the temperature is down to the seventies (which is saying something, given that it’s only May and it was ninety degrees yesterday) . . . but I really ought to be writing, because there are only two things to do in the midst of a thunderstorm.
One, of course, is write.
The other?
Well . . . mind your own fucking business, mate. I am, despite popular gossip, a gentleman.
(We’re in Gorey’s house, by the way. It’s raining. Wonder what happens next? Pen poised in mid-air, I wait for the moemnt…)
(There goes the lightning.)
(Counting on the thunder, waiting to take dictation…)