When's Friday again?

The purpose of this blog is not to kvetch about my first life, but allow me to say at least this in response to this week's schedule, which has me working from 7pm until 5am every day but Friday:

MEH.

But at least nobody was depending upon me to be in-game, and so I can bear the bitter, bitter agony of separation rather well. My castle-thing, however, missed me dreadfully. I can tell by its forlorn, bedraggled appearance, which has nothing at all to do with my building skills and everything to do with my neglect. Horrors, there's to be an Eyre simwarming sort of party on Friday, I think, and it's nowhere near ready to show. Can't decide whether I want to prod it into some semblance of unfurnished order, or leave the windmill standing and offer rides that day. Pride versus sanity, and in the end, neither will win, because I'll give in to the former but ultimately fail to complete anything worth showing, and then be forced to settle for the windmill after all. I could use this realization to help me alter my behavior for the better, but I'm just sleep-deprived enough that I will not.

Found the Caledon: The Motion Picture list to be too amusing, and largely accurate (I will not debate what I do not know) and so spent a half-second deciding what lucky actress would have the pleasure of playing Gloire. It would probably have to be Rose Byrne. You know, that undersized Australian girl who tends, at least in my opinion, to choose characters who are ever so slightly unhinged... no resemblence at all on the last point, but she'll do well enough. And she is appropriately not nearly as well-known as anyone on the main list. There's also Rachel Weisz (undersized, English, and unhinged) but I'm afraid that might be forgetting my place.

House? Or Funhouse?

And you thought it was just for providing a precociously ecological alternative to the soot-belching furnaces that elsewhere pollute fair Caledon's skies!




Shame on you.

On a recent trip off Caledon to throw away my money on pretty useful pretty things, I staggered into Bare Rose and was almost immediately struck in the face by a fluffy neko tail and in the heart by the Dhampir Rider... costume (is the only word.) It comes with a pair of breeches and a jaunty waist sash which will absolutely be making an appearance at an upcoming dance. It also comes with a passamenterie-adorned jacket which, I delightedly realized, could be combined with the horridly-made skirt I created for the Reconciliation Day Ball, tinted to a deep mocha brown, and paired with my Huguenot cross for a moderately irreverent highlighting of the decollete. As so:

Perfect, I have found, for those tedious waits by yon bonnie banks and/or braes when, after having taken exceeding care to follow the high road to its conclusion as specifically directed, one discovers that one has been most rudely stood up by one's true love, who is probably, at that very moment, desecrating some other shady glen with that blowsy tramp Ailsa Kerr whose penchant for Englishmen is common talk from here to Ben Hope.

(Wi' apologies to Lady Scott or whomever actually did write the thing, and to my ancestors. But not to the English.)

I has a windmill.

And it may be the cutest thing I've ever seen. It spins. It mills. It makes a deep whushing sound that I suspect I could grow very much used to. It even, god bless it, has dirt on its none-too-recently whitewashed inner walls. Yet I am cursing Ms. Wind's name for building it, because it breaks my heart to have to take it down!

The sad truth is that my IC self, that tenuous and questionable entity, is not the type to live in a windmill, even the most precious one that ever existed, unless perhaps she's hiding out from being pursued by assassins or pirates or something, and I'm afraid that I'm not aware of anyone being after her. So I will probably be going ahead with the half-ruined mountaintop castle a la Burg Schadeck. Eyre, after all. One must uphold a certain quasigothic standard. Imagine- if you can- Rochester brooding in the shadow of an aesthetically appealing and eminently practical windmill.

No, it simply can't be done.

Pardon me, sir...

...yes. You.

Er, yes. It's lovely to see you, but aren't you perhaps just a little bit... close?

Sir? Really now.

All right, I truly am sorry, but I must take exception...

Sir, if you would please step back just a little bit? 30m or so?

SIR-

ALL RIGHT, BACK OFF THE PLOT.

...that is better. Thank you.