Confession time, y’all. Which never fails to remind me of that scene in Angela’s Ashes when Frankie spews the Holy Christ (literally) all over his Gran’s back porch within minutes of his First Communion. And then has to run back to confess this latest transgression, and ask if Holy Water should be used to clean it up.
So last weekend Evil Monkey came out of the closet, costumed as Evil Emperor from the original Star Wars trilogy. You know—the good one. (Anyone who saw my Thanksgiving Moment of Awesome picture last week can guess how I feel about the later movies, which I like to pretend don’t exist.) Evil Monkey had been dispatched to invite me to the Star Wars: The Old Republic BETA weekend.
I am a bad Jedi. And a worse Writer Monkey. I gave in to the Dark Side.
What? There were cookies. Also, Force Lightning. And Twi’lek snark.
But mainly cookies. They formed a mysterious trail leading away from my office/sanctuary/Ninja Kat habitat to the Tech Monkey simian cave waaaaaay across the house. There Darth Me awaited ascension via character generation. NOM NOM NO—“OOOOoooooo . . . what does this but-ton do?” BOOM! Hooked.
Apparently I ate. I may have slept, but probably not. I think my eyes may have turned a little red. Whether from evil or tearful joy is a matter of debate.
I admit it. I hardly wrote a word. When I did, it was mainly something to do during server crashes and restarts. And even then my heart wasn’t in it. Because I needed my next fix of Dark Side Cookies.
I should mention I’ve been waiting for The Old Republic to go MMORPG since the first game, when it was straight RPG. Dying for it. Quivering, even. In the rain outside Bioware’s house with a ghettoblaster held over my head, blaring the Imperial March on endless loop (Thank you, John Williams. Your work may gotten largely predictable over the years, but it still gives me chills sometimes.)
BAD, BAD WRITER MONKEY.
So here’s what it comes down to. This
This means, in order complete a draft, any draft, of Big Dang Projeckt, I have (as of Monday) 18 days to get my writer monkey $%^# together, and 34 until December 31. Meaning, I have 18 gawds-given days to get into the home stretch, because I’ll be back in Junkie Mode as of the 15th. This is gonna be a sprint and marathon combined.
This is gonna hurt.
*Jumping Jacks* *Runs in Place* * Stretches*
*Pulls hamstring* Ow ow ow. *whimpers* *falls over*
But don’t worry about me. I can quit any time I want to. Really. No, real—what are you all looking at me like that for? Oh, gawds. Is this an intervention?
NO I WON’T GO CAN’T MAKE ME GET THAT STRAIGHT JACKET AWAY FROM ME OH THE HUMANITY--
Oh, wait. Are those cookies?
Weekly Moment of (Dark Side) Awesome: