It’s Tuesday today. Tuesday the third, and I’ve pretty much buggered up any chance of completing NaNoWriMo.
It’s not surprising really, this is the third year in a row I’ve decided to participate and failed miserably. This year I account that to the fact that I read a really mean article which essentially shit all over a variant of my idea and lumped it in with a bunch of other generic, extremely clichéd ideas. Turns out two of my favourite authors write exclusively in clichés as well, but that’s no excuse.
So the only logical thing to do is be dejected for the month as my self-inflicted deadline gets closer and my goalposts are dragged further and further away by the vicious grip of lady cliché time. I resent that bitch.
Anywho, I kind of messed up my week too. On the Saturday night I was hopped up on caffeine and good intentions, and decided not to sleep. It was the best of clichés, it was the worst of clichés; after midnight I realised it was after midnight and started work on my cliché-ridden pile of cliché. I got about six hundred words before stopping, looking at the word count and thinking “this is too-oo easy!” and utterly failing to get any further. It was about eight o’clock so I decided the world could go copulate with itself and I fell asleep.
I woke up again at about half past one when the phone rang. Slightly dazed and foggy as a cliché, I started fumblin around for it, thinking it must be my alarm clock. Turns out it was Dad ringing to say “hey, we’re coming home in a few hours!”
Mum and dad having been away for the last month, I figured I’d ought to get up and tidy the place up. I’m especially proud of my cleaning, except Mum was especially cliche to point out I’d failed to remove a giant cockroach from behind the bathroom door. Other than that my hygiene was exceptional.
That night I fell asleep early in the evening and slept through until half past six.
The next day I woke up tired and though I got a fair bit of work done in the morning, I spent a fair portion of the afternoon napping on the recliner, bent in an awkward position that I think kinked up all my insides like a cliched rubber hose. When I woke up I was fine, but when I went to straighten myself out it was the most painful experience I’ve ever had on a recliner chair. Truly awful.
I was groggy for most of the rest of the afternoon so I watched some TV, ate some bread, went for a walk, and ate some bread.
This brings us to roughly now, when I’ve wasted two days on six hundred words, when I should have hit a little over three thousand. I could blame a whole bunch of things (my keyboard is a cheap piece of plastic flavoured shit, and makes my wrists ache to type on it and I can’t find another.) I think the clichéd thing most to blame is my damn clichéd self on this one.
The rest of the day I plan on chatting with Klapes via Skype.
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