Shit off NaNoWriMo. Nobody likes you anyway.
Except all of those millions (…hundreds of thousands? I’m not good with numbers) of people who are already cruising past 35K when I’m stuck back here in my halting, spluttering, rusting-around-the-outside, paint-flaking-off, crumpled-bonnet Skoda of a 15K wordfart.
Shitting heck. Just thinking about the atrocity exhibition that is my NaNoWriMo makes me feel all wrong, like being watched by a lone smug giant eye of Neil FRIGGIN’ Gaiman, gazing down on me from above like the I’m-so-cool Messiah of slightly kooky stories.
Skullduggery could take down Carabas, any day.
Did I really just write that?
Good. Shoot me now.