Upload, upload, upload. Enter text, enter text, enter text. *sob*
I think I have all my descriptions entered. I’m still short a fair chunk of art, and the archives are largely description-free, but most of the originals are listed (and that’s an important bit) and the majority of at least recent stuff seems up.
Tempted to put up some of the Caliban art, just for kicks–possibly in the archives. A few of the pieces are actually pretty good, although many of them can vanish forever into the mists of time and I won’t cry.
And I have PMS. It’s not the bitchy kind, or the insecure kind, or, my favorite, the deranged Creatrix kind that allows me to slam out ten paintings in three days*. It’s…god, it’s almost too awful to commit to text…the “I want to read a soppy love story” kind of PMS. I exhausted my Juliet Marillier and Sharon Shinn, and eventually picked up Anne Bishop’s books based on Amazon recommendations. My major response so far is “Dude, where were you when I was fifteen and would have really, really loved this?” (Think Mercedes Lackey does S/M. Marginally better than it sounds. I think. I dunno. I’m torn.) But I guiltily enjoy them, because occasionally one must feed one’s inner fifteen year old, even if one would sooner gouge one’s own ovaries out with a pickaxe rather than undergo that crazy hormone whirl again. (If I didn’t have PMS, mind you, I couldn’t speak to my enjoyment.)
The other symptoms are being tireder than usual, and a tendency to get choked up while listening to NPR. Fine and appropriate when listening to discussions of the uglier bits of World War II, certainly understandable about the discovery of the ivory-billed woodpecker. A little weird when the topic is organic crop rotation. I am generally not sentimental about crop rotation. Unless I was a crop in a past life, I’ll chalk this one up to hormones.
But this, too, shall pass, in about…yep, about two more days.
*It’s rare, but I love it when it happens.
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