Shrift, I'm getting the urge to go to Burbank again. It's become a habit. The swallows return to Capistrano every year, and I fly to Burbank and drink too much and snark at the fangurls and bad vids.
Following one's urges is a good, wise thing to do. It might even end in people buying you scotch.
Dude. Tim is a bastard.
Totally untrue. His mom's a Minearketeer, and Kristen doesn't allow hussy moms in the club. There's an interview process, and Tim is totally legit.
Polter-Cow, got it, sang it to myself, thanks.
Awesome! Hoped you knew the tune.
Which I think means this thing, which isn't quite done being written, is already over budget.
Does this mean we'll just end up with
Lost in La Luna
?
She said I was a So Cal version of Terry Gilliam. Which I think means this thing, which isn't quite done being written, is already over budget.
On the plus side, bound to be wriggly in the brainpan and an instant cult classic...
Which, okay, isn't really much of a plus until they start writing books about you...
Uh oh, Allyson, are you bad mouthing bastards again?
Which I think means this thing, which isn't quite done being written, is already over budget.
Well... think of it this way, at least there's no flood yet nor someone with a prostrate issue.
And, *mwah* to you Burrell. Were your ears burning tonight? Cause I was raving about how wonderful you are.
Which I think means this thing, which isn't quite done being written, is already over budget.
I think it meant that it was surreal genius. Except the parts that gave me the wiggins. Creepy, creepy, oogey, wiggins.
Which is Heinlen's fault, not yours. Heinlen was a kinky motherfucker. First wife fucker. tenth wife fucker. The people in Moon have been passing around the same herpes sore for 73 years.