The Thing That Ate My Summer

"This is what I've spent the last three months on?!" That bitter lament, and some hair tearing-out, was the first reaction upon reading -- or re-reading, as it were -- my horrible, horrible, lemon horrible screenplay. Why did I think a stupid story about body-swapping teen witches was a good idea? Sigh. Someone really must stop me from doing things in the future.

Also: in the "So that's why no one came to my birthday party!" department, I found the following circa 1993 snapshot in my room while cleaning:

Those combat boots really were a bitch to tie up. No wonder I look so cross.

Sigh again. What the eff, people? Is this really how I'm to end my days? Writing absurd dialogue about a 15th century Huguenot "truth-telling" demon (protoplasmic byproduct of the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre) and leafing through old photographs from my suburban adolescence? I really didn't think I'd turn out that way.

But all is not lost. I've come up with a great new name for my tippler's club: The Diddlebock Society, named after sad failure Harold Diddlebock (from this movie), who finds renewed zest for life after drinking a spectacular eponymous cocktail.

My favorite quote from this Sturges/Lloyd oddity: "Maybe they were right to fire me. I've gone soft. Your mind gets dull after twenty years working the same job, taking the same train every day, sitting at the same desk doing the same work, taking the same route home again." Find more about our club's namesake here.

And I'm still gearing up for the Big One: the post to end all posts (until the next post, naturally). I'll have to do it another night though, when I've gotten over the horrifying realization that I can't actually write, and am content to merely relay information and scan pretty maps and pictures. Yes, maps! Won't that be exciting!