Probably I was.

Not so much reading now. Kill Tinkerbell on sight, daft idiot twinkling firefly.

If I survive this shit with my soul intact, I'll be able to log this filth as "research" for a book or two.

It's probably gonna be Man of Mercury and the full rewrite of the Barynn trilogy or quadrilogy (when/whatever I make my mind up about the amount of human ugliness the average reader will shovel).

I'm losing my writing muscle, dear old digiplips, and it makes me thoroughly unhappy.

Because nothing matters *that* much.