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Why I'm sitting here at midnight, writing. Jess is upstairs, taking a shower (I may want to murder them at times, but my family's been great about the whole dyke/girlfriend thing) and I'm here arguing with a redheaded muse.
No, not that redhead. This is the other one. No, not the one who's related to Satan, the one who I'm not supposed to fucking have!
Damn Metclub, and their fucking RealAudio interview with Cliff. I hate them all.
Oh, and I've got a pissy ghost muse. For sale. Cheap.
70 pages, maximum, do you hear me, you little shit?
(Jess says her bet is on 200, possibly 300. I say no fucking way.)
70, firm.
*sticks fingers in ears* Lalalalalalalala....
No, not that redhead. This is the other one. No, not the one who's related to Satan, the one who I'm not supposed to fucking have!
Damn Metclub, and their fucking RealAudio interview with Cliff. I hate them all.
Oh, and I've got a pissy ghost muse. For sale. Cheap.
70 pages, maximum, do you hear me, you little shit?
(Jess says her bet is on 200, possibly 300. I say no fucking way.)
70, firm.
*sticks fingers in ears* Lalalalalalalala....
