wtf Heavy Metal hair!

My brain has been hijacked by Finnish death-metal and Herman Li. Who would have thought. It's all that freshly ironed hair going in circles through the air around their goatees and sweaty torsos.
I like the suburban Napalm Death. I like Marco Hietala but not his orchestra. He has such great teeth. So does Dave Grohl.
Force help me, I am prey.

Oddly, this is just when I need to understand Dorsk 81. Who is as smooth as an avocado and has been part of a genderless species for centuries. His cranium has light-up hemispheres and his eyes are soulful and golden. Why am I not channeling Moby? --cuz David Bowie's got too many man-lumps.

In other news, I am not paid for work done in September yet, which means my spouse nags me to nag my boss. Not fun. Kvetch. That's what you are here for, dear blog. I did send her a little mousy meep-mail. My conscience is technically clear.

I so want my happy foreseeing to come true, even if the darkest is yet ahead. I superstitiously don't even want to write it.
Hung up on husband and ripped out my heart by accident. Stayed up till midnight sending healing to nearly anonymous photo of teen in costume of a Twi'lek. It's like pointing from accross a crowded stadium to the folk with the ambulance on the other side. Intent, intent. Must go by instinct even when logic says elsewise, when self is being recalcitrant.

I posted art and then did major revisions on it right at the deviantart. I wonder if my fics suffer in the same manner. Actually, I'm thinking they do. They're splatting out in bits as if the printer head is gummy.

Uncle White is down to his last buck. Khaleen's getting tortured. Doctor Balls likes the nylon-hair ziggy stardust. Spiff is writing spy Draco. Quinlan Vos is Ani's new master.Angel has six stories in the oven at once. There's gonna be a showdown on Vendaxa. Aughisky anatomy is still fluid. The yule tree isn't up yet. Another thing to be nagged about unless I---
take a nap and wake up aching... Oh yeh, Wintersmith. So many fictional worlds that we look avidly toward so as not to feel the smack and grind of our asses to the pavement.