Fixed!

Germain fixed my blog! You can see my photos in full now - thank goodness I know human beings with any sort of computer knowledge.

Today was lame, man... Yom Kippur is the Pinto of Jewish holidays. Sure, you get rid of all of your sins, but you're also deprived of water. All day. Have I mentioned I live in a desert? A DESERT. The high today was 105. I'm guessing - yesterday was 107 for sure, and that was a record. Heat waves are the best moments in which to feel grateful for an office job. Those moments come so rarely, no?

I've been pondering writing a novel. Or short stories, or a play, or a screenplay. Anything to extend the thoughts that I have running around my head that I think would be worth putting on paper.
But here's the problem. For the last five years, I've been trained, indoctrinated, and mind-blasted into having the ability to reduce an entire story to 15 seconds. First it was 30, then 25, then 20, and now an effortless 15. I can cram the whos, wheres, whens, whys and whats in, in three words or less. Impressive, right? I'm an information machine.

So as you probably can understand... the thought of stringing words together and forming an entire piece of literature (which also has to make me rich) is daunting. That, and with three jobs and a moderately successful social life, I don't even have time to vacuum. No, seriously. I'm about 3 days away from paying someone to clean my 2 bedrooms, small living room, and pathetic kitchen for me. If they take a damp rag to the baseboards, I will cry. I will bake them brownies and ask impertinent questions about their children. We will become besties. I re-signed my apartment lease for the single reason that I also received a free rug steaming service, and I've been daydreaming about the "after" image of my beige carpet ever since. I make bets with myself about how many spots will disappear entirely, or just fade by 50%, which is acceptable and still lovely.

If I could write a novel full of sarcastic life-failure anecdotes, we'd have a runaway bestseller on our hands.