Justin Achilli

Lots going on over here.

This past weekend was Memorial Day, of course. I think it’s a holiday that commemorates soldiers or something, but the actual meaning of the holiday has eroded over time beneath nigh-limitless weekend sales and various parties. If I know one thing, however, I know that it’s every American’s patriotic duty to scarf down as many hamburgers as he can handle over the course of the weekend. Me, I had nine hamburgers during those three days, topped off with six hot dogs and the requisite High Life. Kelly made some excellent burgers and Mark’s were stellar as well. My own were as magnificent as ever they are, so no low point in food consumption ever occurred.

I’m also into my new job, which is probably the greatest job in the world: I lift things. All day long, I lift things. I take things down off of shelves and I put them on pallets or in trucks. It rules. The best part of it is that it doesn’t involve sitting at a computer, leaving me free to come home and write in the evenings. It’s also a nine-to-five-thirty, Monday-through-Friday gig, meaning I still have a normal person’s schedule. That’s something a lot of people take for granted, but let me tell you, when you’ve done your third consecutive graveyard restock shift at Target and the sun’s coming up when you get home (and you’re not going home because the clubs have turned you out), you begin to hate the world.

So, yeah. I know I’ve been scant around here of late, but that’s just because I’m settling into the new gig and regular hours. That being that, I’m signing off here to stomp through the Demimonde a little more.

Oh! I may end up at GenCon this year. We’ll see. Mike asked if I’d like to DJ the White Wolf party and there’s another invitation in the works for that weekend, too. Remember also that Project A-Kon is right around the corner, so be sure to swing by there if you’re in the neighborhood.

Ta for now! Kiss kiss!

I spent the weekend sleeping or conscious but groggy. Thursday and Friday, I had night shift work at the “day job,” as it were. That involves 10:30 at night to 6:30 in the morning, which isn’t really conducive to living a normal life. Compounding the issue was an interview for another job at 11:00 am on Friday. If you’re doing the math, that’s work all night Thursday, sleep for two-and-a-half hours after that shift, go to an interview as fresh-faced as possible (which included a drug test and physical, so I didn’t get back until four) and then go back to work for another 10:30 to 6:30.

El stinko. The upshot is that I ended up missing the annual Lamborghini Polo Cup on Saturday, so assnecked was I from dashing around the previous two days. No bars, no parties, no nothin’ this weekend. Just sleep and staggering around alike a zombie. On the plus side, I took advantage of Friday’s screwiness to chow a Whataburger, like a good Texan.

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I’m using a neat organizational program called Inspiration that Phil turned me on to for keeping track of plot flow and character resumes. It’s got a lot of great features — most importantly for me, it allows the user to go back and forth between outline and diagram modes, so dropping in an idea and then moving it around sequentially is no problem. (Also importantly for me is the snap-to-grid feature, because I’m one of those compulsive organizers who doesn’t like his outline/diagram looking all higgledy-piggledy. Not because there’s anything riding on it, just because I like everything all orderly.)

1) Three thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine words today.

2) This is good. Give it a listen.

3) Any time you hear “Our shareholders are very important to us” in an employee orientation meeting, you know that you’re going to get shafted as one of that company’s employees.

4) It is very hot in my house. Not hot so much, actually, as still. I have to sleep with doors open and fans on. I will probably die before August.

5) Heh. The Go Go’s. They sounded like Social Distortion if Social D was a bunch of girls. I think that’s pretty cool, but I’m not sure.

I amm goinge to beekume a rapparr. Itt izz awsumm to knott spell wurdzz kuhrecktlee. Heere izzz tha leeryckz fo’ mai gnu saung, “Bitch Gunn Cristal Bitch (Itz A Haurdd Pypmz’ Lyfe)”. Tha sawng droppz two-dayy an’ feecharz Yung Joc, XZBT, an’ Dem Franchize Boyz.

Bitch
I gots a gunn
Gunn
Itz Eskalayde tyme
Cristal
Bigg tymin’ I got madd skeelz
Bitch
Awl thah feemayles luvvs me

Uh
Uh

Yeah

Uh
Yeah

Bitch

Aye gotz golde teef

Buye mie rekkurd.

Three thousand words, you freakish punks.

Oh, man, I’m finally finished with this project that I couldn’t complete. It was only about 40K words, but I just couldn’t get into it. Now, though, it’s done — a little bit every day finally put it to rest. Crikey, I feel like a chorus of angels is singing in my head, calling to the high heavens about my freedom and sovereignty. I am again my own man!

Sure, it’s not as bad as all that, but this was the one project keeping me from devoting my full attention to the real work I need to be doing. Life is crummy like that at times. It dangles before you the thing you want to be doing but then impedes you with something you need to finish first. Let it never be said that I am not a jackass, perpetually chasing his carrot while a caveman with a club kickboxes across my spine while making me drink a big glass of orange juice that Tommy Lee put there, and we all know how gross Tommy Lee is.

I think I’m mixing my metaphor.

Hey, so anyway, tomorrow’s a new day. I promise myself 3,000 words on Demimonde and I expect to write to you here at some point in the afternoon saying, “Hells, yeah, I did my 3,000 words.” Tomorrow’s also abs day at the gym and guys’ night at Steve Fields. Oh, and dinner at Snuffer’s.

Speaking of Snuffer’s that reminds me of another wondrous Texas thing: Whataburger. I’ll eat Whataburgers all day long. Sure, they’re fast food and junk food, but I can’t get enough of them. To date, I’ve been good and had them only once a week, but when I order one, I go the whole nine yards: bacon, cheese, jalapenos, and a side of fries. It’s very satisfying in a way that a Whopper — which I also have much love for, now, so don’t apply any hate — just can’t be. It’s pure Texas. Am I right, people? Am I right?

Dang, maybe I’ll have one for lunch and then Snuffer’s for dinner.

Hey, also, I ate here. Terrible service, but an excellent rooftop patio bar. The food was pretty, but for service that’s reluctant and unattentive, I hate paying top dollar, especially when I’m stone cold broke. I had the duck breast, which was very good and came on a confit of leg meat, mango, cabbage, and radishes. I love duck. It’s so perfectly American, even though it’s not, really.

Duck Whataburger. Okay, I gotta go. Here’s a second installment of a comic or something. Zooma zooma.

Britney, darling:

Enough.

More soon. Almost finished with the thing what haunts my keys.