What a day. There's a little writing competition over at Bruce Bethke's blog that I'll likely not join because, though once a fan, CSI (Las Vegas...there are so many now) just makes me sad. I'm fine with death and all that, just not as the entree of every fucking meal.
Plus I had an eager new blogger drop by with a request, and dammit, homey don't play dat shit.
The wife is sad, because one of her charges died, and died hard and ugly. Like Nietzsche, apparently something, or some things, came for him at the end. One would like to think that bright beings tore him from their grasp. One would like to think. My Fraternal Grandfather, when his time came, he surrounded by sons and daughters and his wife, they saw him quivering in mortal terror, as the room darkened, and shadows crawled.
Might shouldn't read this at night. This is how I live, how I have always lived, since my youth. I'm used to it.
Your mileage may vary.
The wife went up and spent some time in the Bible. It comforts her. The kids and I watched Food Network downstairs, and ate chocolate eggs. Little ones. Crunchy. Delightful. I write this way to make the Writing Nazis nuts. Amuses me.
I submitted my 'One Sunny Day In A Field' post to folks that were going to put it in a book, and give it basically worldwide distribution. Trouble is, it was too long, so the editor sent it back with edits. Normal in the writing/publishing biz, eh? To my shame, I considered it. To my credit, I said, hey, this is perfect as is, and if you don't want it that way, it is your loss.
Scruples suck. But dammit, it's perfect.
G'night folks, any of you still up at odd hours. Be you reading this in Saturday's daylight, shame on you. Go do something with your family. Take your Dad out to lunch.
You just never know...