I love Weebly's stats. They bear no relation to reality whatsoever.
It's -4 degrees centigrade, the heating only clicked on at 8:10am because I fiddled with the timer (I'm sure I set it to come on at 7:30. Why am I always hot at 7:30?) and it's ... only having a pathetic attempt at snowing, none of which is settling.
Which is unsettling given even locally I keep reading about things saying CLOSURE, and I don't think it's a sense of satisfaction they're finding.
There really is something seriously wrong with this patch of England's climate; even when back when I was at school the snow affecting a town five miles — wait, eleven miles away? — was wildly different.
Although given it turns out it really was eleven miles away (Google wouldn't lie to me, right?), only three miles nearer than Nottingham city center itself but in the wrong direction, maybe that accounts for it. (Wonder if my mother's nurse will turn up today? Given they have issues turning up when the roads are clear and then lie about it, it's doubtful.)
The chances of me getting any peace and quiet today are nonexistent. Why do you never write any more? nonexistent voices cry. Because that's not a luxury afforded to full-time carers of narcissists, I shout silently back.
That and work. Quite a lot of work today.
I can amuse myself with mental images of Milos and Alex in a dewy field at least. No idea where the scene came from but I'm not complaining. Apparently, neither is Milos.
I didn't need another idea I won't bother writing, let alone another sequel I won't bother writing.
Particularly since I only wrote three chapters of the original several years ago and just... never got any further. And I only wrote those to exorcise a dream that'd been bothering me for a couple of years before that.
Not that the fucking thing's ever left me alone. It's ironically how I started listening to Franz Ferdinand — for no apparent reason Radio 2 played Walk Away every morning at the same time for a week; by the end my defenses had been shattered — and listening to most of The Killers' Day & Age reminds me of it. Except I Can't Stay. That one never fitted in with the narrative.
Apparently because it was laying in wait to scream I'm a fucking sequel! at me.
The only consolation here is that if there's a sequel, at least Chime got a relatively satisfactory ending to the first one.
...Who am I kidding? David got a sequel and neither he nor Cas exactly got a great ending.
Though David did arguably better than Cas.
Nah. The mental image tells me most stuff sorted itself out, so there's that at least.
Now it can just wait for me to deal with this unwanted third arc for Radial* and Milos's sudden discovery of his sex drive.
* Because the person who hasn't finished either the first or second arcs is highly qualified to start the third.
I am far more excited about this than is either mature or sensible.
I have a silent but ongoing feud with a moron who can't use capitalisation.
...That sounds more overdramatic than it ought.
Long story very short, I still use Winamp* and I also use a lyrics plugin. Most of the time this doesn't irritate me, but lately I've been listening to more "soft" rock music — The Killers / Brandon Flowers, Franz Ferdinand, Panic! At The Disco** and so on.
And someone, who shall remain nameless purely because I don't know it, has this frankly sickening habit of posting the lyrics With Every Single Word Capitalised, Even Things That Make No Sense Like Letters Following After Apostrophes, Because "We'Ll" Is Such A Great Look.
Fucking irritating, isn't it? Now add to that the fact that they don't actually seem to own any of the lyrics books and they get half the words wrong, and watch my every single last little button get set off. Me? I like owning CDs (as does the demon in my house that squirrels them away) so I have all the lyrics books.
Cue a small spot of war-waging.
I type fast. Not just because I write, but because it's an advantage in most jobs I've owned; as an example, during a word war a couple of NaNo seasons ago, I wrote 1,300 words in 30 minutes. Possibly could've gone faster. So for me, transcribing lyrics books is pretty soothing.
Luckily, I have the sense to save the lyrics afterwards, because the ignorant little fucker keeps replacing my perfectly-done, word-for-word faithful transcriptions with their own illiterate twaddle. At this point, if I knew who they were I'd be inclined towards breaking their fingers for everyone's sanity.
One thing it's given me, though, is an appreciation for the bands who approach their lyrics booklets in interesting new ways. Most bands use it as a direct transcription. Lyrics, pretty pictures, sometimes a couple of typoes. I'm half-tempted to leave them in; one kind of perfectionism wins out over the other and I correct them.
Franz Ferdinand, not so much.
It's been refreshing to see a band approach their lyrics books as works of poetry. Pauses in spacing and line breaks to convey added meaning, generally presented well. Not sure how I felt about the hand-written style of one: I can barely read my own writing, and it turns out whoever wrote theirs writes like me so I didn't even have the dubious benefit of taking a guess at what I meant in the past.
One fly in the ointment: I had an ill-judged flirtation with digital music ownership, which included their self-titled album. Ill-judged because I like owning a physical item (for the demon to steal; hey can I have Day & Age back now please?) and because... yeah. No lyrics books. I like lyrics books, I always have. Even before this l'il debacle. It's one thing when you're replacing your copy of The Automatic's second album (can I have that back too please?), another entirely when it's a new album.
Physical copy arrived today. Laid out nicely, as expected, and different again to the others. Interesting choice of typewriter-style, figured there'd be no surprises there and no impossible-to-read sections, so I started on the first song and worked through.
Got to Michael.
Uh. Not sure what I'd expected. I mean, I love the song. I'm bound to, all things considered. But when the band writes lyrics like they're poetry, when phrasing and spacing are both important, and even when I know the song backwards...
...Don't think I expected it to be a typewritten expression of utter fucking unbridled lust.
And now I just have to wonder...
Should I have included the stuttering L when I posted it into the plugin? Maybe the bit XXXXXed out?
*chokes back laughter*
What do you think they'd do, faced with the line SO COME ALL OVER ME?
Like I didn't already fucking love that song.
* Yeah yeah, shock horror, I don't use Apple Music. Which means I didn't get inflicted with Bono's vanity project. Who's the loser now?
** But only Vices & Virtues. For some reason I just can't get on with the rest of their music, but I fucking love that album. Also reminds me of someone I used to know. Bittersweet.
I know I said no book talk here, but something's been bugging me for weeks now and I'm lacking anywhere else to have a little rant. Here'll do.
Lately (certain) indie authors have been throwing their hands up and running around going "Britain is leaving the EU! This means doom for UK book selling!" And I'm just sitting here scratching my head and wondering where the fuck they've been for the last four years and why they failed to notice the damage the EU has actually done to indie publishers?
Did the entirety of 2015 pass them by, when the EU insisted that digital products — books included — had to suddenly abide by an esoteric and complicated new VAT structure that included raising the VAT rate on digital books from 3% to 20% (since many large companies are based in Luxembourg, which meant passing on the tax saving to the buyer)? Or the way it screwed over indie book markets who now have to calculate VAT based not in their home country, but on the country of the consumer?
Presumably they didn't have to sit down and go through the process of working out whether or not they needed to raise their prices to offset the fact VAT was no longer added on top of a book's list price but was suddenly taken out from their earnings instead.*
No wonder people flocked to Amazon, who did it all for them; if you had your own small storefront, but didn't earn enough in the UK to be VAT registered, guess what? It didn't fucking matter.
Oh, and, just for added shits and giggles:
HO THERE FINE CUSTOMER BUYING MY BOOK FROM MY WEBSITE, ARE YOU A SMALL BUSINESS?
Of course now people are falling over themselves to say, "but, but, but ... the EU says people can reduce the VAT rate of ebooks to match printed ones! If we leave the EU we won't be able to do it!"
Uh, says who? And this is the same EU who, in 2014 when Malta and Italy did exactly that, decided it was illegal and threatened to prosecute them.
Oh no. What will the UK book market ever do without the EU?
Maybe, possibly, become more fucking stable, that's what.
* Not, in the end, something I needed to bother with for many reasons, including the fact I can't write for shit and no one enjoyed reading it anyway.
Which is pretty usual, actually.
Of course, one of the advantages to being a nobody former-author with enough mental issues to shake a stick at and then run away from because one of them might come back to bite you is...
That I can ramble for England and no one will give a fuck!
And the best of it is, basically none of it will be anything to do with my shitty writing — so if you're expecting that, you can toddle off now, there's nothing here for you.
The new season of The Tick started on Friday, which made me unreasonably happy. I'd have just been happy, but what made me unreasonably so was the fact that, instead of releasing episodes weekly as had apparently been done for the first half of the season — and as the creator Ben Edlund had, apparently, said he preferred, in order to create "water cooler moments" — they released the whole season in a batch.
And honestly I was a little disappointed. After all, the creator had preferred a certain way, and while I, like a lot of other people, was disappointed he'd chosen that way I (unlike quite a few of said other people) figured it was his right to choose that way. So I was fully prepared for settling down on Friday nights. (Or Saturdays. Usually Saturdays.)
And lo, I went to watch the first episode today (Saturday, for the record, not Friday) and... there's the whole season.
Which is the unreasonably happy bit.
And yet, as is so often the case, self-control deserted me; I watched four episodes in one sitting. Which is less heinous than watching half of Stranger Things in one go, to be fair, since each episode is only half an hour long, but this means I only have two episodes left and then it's done.
And then I'll have to go back to watching fucking Outlander to make Amazon Prime worth it. And not even the one with Jim Caveizel.
I really need to finish Parks and Rec. and Black Mirror...
Why can't I pay for Netflix up front like Amazon?
Asexual, aromantic, and transmasc non-binary. No, I have no idea how I ended up writing romance either.