Now that I’m slogging through 300 e-mails a day, designing covers here and there, managing a handful of artists, and skimming through numerous forums and lists for major announcements—all on top off doing my full-time day job—I’ve kind of let this whole web log thing get away from me again. I almost forgot about it this month. Almost. The endless comment spam made me come back to it.

Okay, so you got my attention. Yes, I’ll buy a penis extender. Mine is so short, it’s practically nonexistent.

Now, that I’m here, though, I have no idea what I want to say. I’m totally out of practice for this sort of thing, and I know people are expecting quirky and funny, and I feel anything but.

Yesterday was awful, for instance. I had a migraine borne out of a simple sinus headache—a sinus headache that visits me regularly now, ever since I sobbed and bawled like a baby in the movie theater watching De-Lovely. Let me tell you, crying like you’ve never cried before, so that everyone in the theater is looking at you like you’re crazy, can really mess with your sinuses, and I had never cried like that in a movie theater since … since Tom Hanks lost Wilson the volleyball in Cast Away.

I know. I’d never cried so hard over a lost volleyball before. I can’t tell you how much it broke my heart. H.E. says I have some serious abandonment issues, and I agree. I hate the thought of a volleyball abandoning me.

But anyway, I was pretty much down for the count yesterday because of that sinus thing. I meant to write last night. Seriously! But I made the mistake of thinking about all that crying over a volleyball again, and I ended up crying some more. So then I developed that headache, and the whole thing turned into a huge migraine mess.

Naturally, we went out to get me some sinus pain medication, but we ran some errands on the way so that I could really and truly settle into my migraine and have a really good excuse for not writing. We also talked really loudly to each other about anything and everything so that my eardrums would feel like exploding.

We talked about the cross-genre books that my two e-publishers put out, about how they marry genres like science fiction with erotic romance. So H.E. asked, “Like stories about Martians kidnapping young girls—”

“No, no,” I interrupted, “They don’t accept pedophilia of any kind.”

“—and the Martians say, ‘Hey, little girl, ever seen three of these?'”

That was when I grabbed my head and moaned, my migraine was so bad.

But on and on, we’d continue, my head getting worse. And H.E. would point out landmarks along the Pacific Coast Highway, one of them being a building with a sign that read “Snacks and Rentals”.

So of course, H.E. had to comment about that.

“Excuse me. I’d like to rent a hot dog. How much is that? Okay, thanks. I’ll have this back to you by tomorrow, around noonish. How many times have you rented this hot dog out before, do you know?”

And so on about renting milkshakes and lemonade … which only made my head hurt even more.

So that’s why I have nothing quirky and funny to write today. But at least I’m here, and you have my attention.

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