IN WHICH I BECOME FRUSTRATED AT MYSELF
One of the things I try to do with my writing here -- I don't think I succeed -- is to create a sense of place. I want my vision of Canterville (named because I felt keeping "Canterlot", even if canon, was dumb and "Camelot" was even dumber) to feel like a proper city despite itself. Follow me for more word-barf.

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Descriptive prose can take many forms:

She was a hot glass of milk drank by a lactose-intolerant pony just before bed. A hot oven whose door you dared not open.

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Okay, the excitement of air travel is behind us. Theresa can now proceed to meet her parents unscathed.

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'It's hot enough to boil a monkey's bum, yer majesty,' as she smiled quietly to herself

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Somewhere out of the blue of left field at the eleventh hour, we are introduced to an attorney from New York named Connie McKesson. Apparently there is a class action lawsuit being filed against Theresa by greedy capitalists who thought that investing in gold was the safest thing to do, only to have the value of their investment plummet because of Theresa bringing in all that extra gold from space.

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RIP My old laptop. My new one isn't completely set up yet and ready for writing, so I've got the old one up one last time. I typed over a million words on this thing, amassed hundreds of memes, bookmarked too many goddamn things, and fumed at poorly written Netflix drivel on this idiot hunk of plastic. I covered it with far too many stickers, let my cats near it far too many times, and dropped it once or twice. The keyboard is pretty funky too, if I do say so myself because everyone who has

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