Jealous Bunnies

January 22

7:20 p.m.

I'm presently waiting for Heather to return from an appointment, perhaps bearing french fries to go with our boca burgers. I tried to read The Book of All Flesh, but the combination of my searing hunger and many scenes of zombies-eating-brains proved too offputting, so I stopped. I'm down to one galley in my house, y'all; this is a good thing. Not long ago I had, like, seven. I managed to write two reviews last night, and Heather thinks they're good, they made her want to read the books, so I'm satisfied. I gave up on two other books, since I couldn't get into them. I'll have to nose around the office tomorrow and see what's come in lately that I can pounce on...

I like Stewart's Resurrection Man, though I wish I were reading it in a less bite-sized fashion. I've made it halfway through the book by reading about a page at a time; I don't think I've sat down and just read it for more than ten minutes straight, and that lessens its effectiveness. But it's interesting, and cool (though it's not a "thriller", as the copy on the back purports; imagine that, back cover copy being wrong!).

The landlady came and did a walk-through this evening, for reasons which are not entirely clear, but it's easier to acquiesce than to argue with her. It's a bit like having a disapproving parent tell you to clean your room, or an RA checking you out of your dorm, oddly disturbing and belittling... her pretext was that we're having a new housemate move in, and so she needed to note the present condition of the house, but that doesn't actually make much sense, and she can't see much anyway since there's furniture and pictures on the walls and so forth (which fact she complained about). But we endured, and it's over, and the impending walkthrough was what prompted our CleaningFest, which was long overdue, so all's well, I suppose.

I keep feeling oddly stressed-out this evening, and I'm not sure why. My reviews are done, I'm on top of things at work (knock wood), I sent out my novel, the house is clean, I put oil in my car... possible sources of anxiety are: 1) moving furniture from Karen's house to here, since scheduling incompatibilities have cropped up, and 2) Heather's birthday, since I'm irrationally afraid that she'll have a miserable time. That's all I can come up with, though, and the first is surmountable, the second foolish. I think I'm just pointlessly anxious. I get that way sometimes. Free-floating anxiety. It sucks. I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking I've forgotten something...

12:48 a.m.

Yawn. Well, not really; I'm actually wide awake. And ferociously craving iced tea, which is too bad, since there isn't any, so I would have to brew some, and that seems like too much trouble, so. Water it is.

Heather didn't just bring fries, she brought shakes and burgers! Woo hoo! She's the best girlfriend ever, ever, ever! We hung out a bit. I played Diablo II (on my computer; hurray for more memory!), starting over with an all-new character. I'd forgotten how addictive that game is; two and a half hours just melted out from beneath me. Video games are good for irrational anxieties, though, in my experience; they distract my mind.

Hmm. Let me get linky for a moment. There's a neat, odd story by Nick Mamatas at Strange Horizons this week. I want to read his book, Northern Gothic, but I haven't, yet, just flipped through it enough to get interested.

Here's a journal kept by one of my coworkers. I found out today that she reads my journal sometimes, which only gives me a slight sense of unreality. At work she and I seldom talk about anything beyond "scan this!" and "check this correction!" and "have you seen a zip disk lying around?" Odd. I like the way she says "boyofthemoment" in her journal. Funny. And I can sympathize with her peeing bunny problems. My old girlfriend Leigh's bunny (a himalayan lop named Simon) peed on my head once. There's nothin' worse than a jealous rabbit.

Hmm. My mind is so scattered, but I'm not sleepy. Not sure what to do. More Diablo would be a mistake. But I think I'm done here, for now. G'night.

Tim Pratt
P.O. Box 13222
Berkeley, CA 94712-4222