I'm the guy who had a good weekend

NaNoWriMo, Day 18:

998 words on Friday night (I had an easy night because it was the last in the series of Scrubs)
4690 words on Saturday.
1919 words on Sunday (not so great because of the England Rugby -- woohoo! -- and Football -- boohoo! -- internationals).
2117 words last night.

Yay, I broke the 37 kiloword mark last night. Of course, this means I've now got to the hardest part of what I have (basically) plotted for this novel: the funeral. The characters have got to the church, and when I left it yesterday, I was wasting word count by describing everyone reacting to the various hmyns and how they're mourning. Not looking forward to this.

Update:
New Chapters -- 1;
Words -- no idea (although NaNo's up to 37323);
Stories in Circulation -- 1 (The Well);
Rejections -- 6;
Acceptances -- 1 (He Missed the Sea -- now live at Flash Me Magazine).

I'm the guy who had a bad weekend

Alcohol Free November, Day 18:

Well, I did it. Saturday night I went out on the town, stayed out until one o'clock, and didn't drink. At all. I passed the test. Spent the whole night on lemonade and water, and actually managed to have a reasonably good time.

Saturday night was the birthday of a friend from work. Unfortunately, I was the only person out representing work, but I had a good night nonetheless. Fluffy's mates got him wasted (and I say it like that because I, in sober mode, took no part in it). I have never seen him that drunk before. By ten o'clock, walking to the pub in the evening, the poor boy was falling all over the place. We managed to get him into the club, but he disappeared on us about midnight, and we assumed that he had staggered off home. I found out yesterday that he passed out in the gents, and had to be rescued/evicted by the bouncers after the club closed.

A worrying development, when I go out and stay sober: I seem to get a little sympathy drunk. I was actually wobbling a bit myself in the club, and I got a seriously bad case of beer goggles. Up until now, I wasn't aware that you could get drunk by association.

I'm the guy who lives in the reptile house

So I finish my NaNoWriMo effort, after two hours of writing, and I go downstairs thinking I'll get myself some supper and watch a little television before bed. It's ten o'clock. Downstairs all the lights have gone off and my housemate has already curled up in his basket and gone to sleep. It's ten o'clock! Milkmen keep later hours than this. I am forced to negotiate the ground floor in the dark, because the light switch is way across the room.

I'm beginning to think that Gilly is cold-blooded. Ever since the onset of winter, he's been going to bed earlier and earlier. He's practically hibernating. He's also complains of the cold non-stop, mostly when it's not really that cold in the house. I feel like I should be keeping him in a warm glass tank and feeding him insects and dead mice.

Later . . .