I honestly think Life just waited for November to let all hell break loose. Not only did I have NaNo + College shit, but NOW all the social/home/general problems make an appearence.

I'm HOPING to finish NaNo... but it's not looking pretty.

Hopefully I'll have a holiday story at any rate. Besides, there's always next year

~DEAD~

From NaNo:

From the Plot Bunny Attack

I sat, leaning backwards in my chair. She was beside me, biting her lip in pensive thought. The page was yellow, a very mundane yellow that would be funny at any other time. But today, even I felt icy hands grip my stomach at the sight of it. It signaled waiting in line outside the door to the dreaded College Office, applications to be done, envelopes to find…
And that endless waiting, waiting, waiting…

And I had given my slip in a month ago.

Something had to be done. Something had to shift, a revolutionary change must occur. This tension must be battled, sword in hand, by a gallant, heroic, incredibly talented, determined, goddamn gorgeously hot, sophisticated, intelligent, fun-loving knight in shining… J.C. Penny separates.

Too bad I only had two of the qualifications. And, as much as I’d like them to be “gorgeously hot” and “heroic,” they were “fun-loving” and “J.C. Penny separates.” Which is a lie, because I was only wearing the sweater part of the separates. So I had… one and a half of the qualifications?

No matter. It was me and her, and I felt an urge to be both annoying and helpful at the same time. I was supposed to be Happiness, damn it. I should be able to banish tension with a flick of my wrist.

I leaned back further, soundless, palms slicked with clammy sweat, heart thudding. Keeping the chair on two legs, I removed one steadying hand, and surreptitiously grabbed the other chair. I leant in. She took no notice of me.

This is it.

This is it.

My head lined up in the back of her, breathing extremely soft. I neared her ear.

“… Unda pressure!” I sang. She jumped two feet in the air (and I am entirely serious about that.)

Then the murderous glare.

Crap.

“CLAIRE,” she yelled, giving me the eye. We locked positions. I hardly dared to breathe.

Then…

“… doodoodoodoodoooodooodo.”

It was the strains of the opening to the same song.

“ressa, pushin’ down on me, pushin’ down on you-oo-oo.”

She cracked a grin.

Unanimously, we burst into song, “It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about!”

And dissolved into giggles.

According to me, the wavelength we shared, whether busting tension or singing the same song we both loved, was a ‘baby born of orgasmic unconsciousness.’