I got my "Prophecy" quota wrapped last night, hurrah! One less thing I have to worry about tonight. I'm sort of worried about it anyway. I'm a bit under target for the monthly goal, and I'm not going to get any writing done on it this weekend, because I'm going to a convention. No, not Anthrocon. There's a con around 200 miles from where I live;
Of course, it probably won't have any of my regular photographers, so I doubt I'll get any pictures back to show off. Then again, that hardly matters since I've got tons of pictures of my whole wardrobe by now anyway.
I'm not too worried about packing.
I've been fretting over "Just Trust Me" and whether or not I should plan for a session next week. A significant part of me thinks that doing a full session next week just ain't gonna work. I want to keep the story moving and make everyone happy, but I also want to not stress myself to the gills doing so. Lately, I've been stressing over everything.
I don't want to work. I so do not want to work. I especially don't want to work on the Never-Ending-Nightmare-Undead-Project-of-t
Whine whine whine.
I was running late and caught the Gillham bus this morning. Postman got on with me, and I sat down next to Paper-reading Lady again; she was wearing a navy suit with a gold brooch on the shoulder, and had her attention firmly planted on her paper. The oddest thing I noticed -- another Tarantino-touch -- is that everyone was in the same place as on Tuesday. Paper-reading Lady, Postman, me, even the two women I'd noticed smiling. It was as though we all had assigned seats. I've never noticed such a confluence of the same people in the same places before. Even on buses where I see the same faces, they're usually arranged a little differently.
Postman and Paper-reading Lady didn't talk to each other today, however.