8-17

 8-17

Something that has been a tradition for me since 2020 or so is to drive to the dam and take a look at my texts and email, after having run the length of it and back, of course.  Today marks the first time (except the time it was pouring rain) where I'm considering not going.  I just have so much editing to do (halfway through an "Arcove's Bright Side" chapter, I realized I had opened TWO chapters at the same time, and was pasting the edited bits into the wrong chapter.  Whoops), and wasted a full hour reading a 1966 horror story with two British accents and an Italian one (which struck me as particularly bothersome when she winds up speaking Spanish at the end.  Whoops again), which I probably will never use.  

And now the sun's getting real low, Big Guy, and I can't decide what to do.  I have my exercise bike, if I want to get some exercise, but . . . ah okay, I guess I'll go, if only to run and ask Marshal if he wants to watch VALERIAN AND THE CITY OF A THOUSAND MONKEYS with me.

I got this idea tonight, sort of a Hallmark Bullshit Of The Week movie idea, where these people all get off a bus in a little, isolated, idyllic town, and find themselves . . . well, who gives a bung what brought them there (job offer?  Mysterious letter?  AIDS?), but they find themselves . . . running into someone who is perfect for them, and start falling in love, like it's the bleedin' Love Boat, only docked in an out-of-the-way village.  Let's say there are, I dunno, eight people, and each one just happens to pair off with someone from their group.  It's so wonderful, just imagine it for a moment--I like you, you like me, and neither of us can think of a single reason why we shouldn't be together . . . and is that music playing somewhere?  Smooch, smooch, I am so happy, Arthur, and finally my life is complete, Jessica.  But wait a minute, what are the chances that each of us, three men and five women ('cause you gotta have lesbians, kids, to keep this off my mom's television set), all happened to fall for somebody who got off that bus on Friday?  And nobody's lonely, nobody's unwanted, nobody's going to bed with blue, swollen gonads.  Isn't that awfully convenient?  Like, suspiciously so?

If I were a real writer (I say all the time, and will continue to say, just try to stop me), I would call the story "Some Enchanted Evening" (or, if I were really good at my job, "You Will Meet A Stranger"), and get to work on it soon, so I could have it out for Valentine's Day.*  I ended up writing 1260 words on it, fairly late at night.

Arcove or Exercise: Both (and Writing)

*By the way, I hope to die on February 14th one day.  Because f**k Valentine's Day.