I'm supposed to be *finishing* stories, not *starting* them

zellandyne, I have 1,059 words of "The Wives of Paris" and it's all your fault.

Not sure whose fault it is that I seem to be channeling yuki_onna-lite with this thing, though. It was supposed to be, I don't know, like "Once a Goddess" or something. Instead I have a semi-bitter, self-aware narrative that's already referenced Morgan le Fay and Hallgerðr, and narrowly missed having the Queen of Sheba join the party. (Lamia took her place.) It feels bizarrely like my story idea fell into somebody else's paint can and came out the most unexpected color, not my usual look at all.

But hey. 1,059 words, and I'd probably stay up to write more (it's almost time for Penthesilea to show up, unless I decide to really embrace the whole culture-mash thing and make it Scáthach instead), but I do have to get up at a reasonable hour tomorrow. So I'll let this sit, and pray the paint can hasn't vanished by the time I come back.

Son of a *bitch*.

I find myself reluctant to post about this, as I have several friends right now dealing with medical complaints of a much more serious nature. But I also know those friends would tell me that their difficulties do not mean I should somehow be happy about my own, and I'm going to have to bring this up sooner or later. So:

I'm having ankle surgery.

Again.

( Details within. )

It isn't the end of the world, of course. But it's an annoyance, and one I really could have done without.