It's 1:30 a.m., and I'm nowhere near sleep. I am, however, sufficiently scattered-of-mind that I'm giving up on writing fiction for the night. I did another thousand words just now, and I'm well into the thick of things on the still-nameless Rangerigirl-related story. I might do a sprint tomorrow night and finish it. I'll have it done by the weekend, at least, probably. I'm happy with it so far. Good writing, cool shit, ghosts, monsters, airships -- I'm having fun.

Heather went to a birthday party tonight. I decided not to go, mostly because I didn't feel like spending that much time on BART and buses (it was in San Francisco) for a relatively short time at a party. I didn't do much of interest while Heather was gone -- some laundry, some sitting-on-the-couch, playing with the (still faintly sulphrous) cats, taking a nap, and so on. Mostly I just sat around waiting for Heather to call and tell me to come pick her up from BART, which happened rather a lot later than either of us had expected, so we didn't get to spend much time together tonight. A shame. But at least I have clean clothes, and a thousand words done. Could be worse.