Hobkin is under the pronounced misapprehension that the Death-Cold season is nearly upon us, where the temperature will drop to frigid degrees and food will be scarce unto starvation. This, despite the fact that the fluffwit has never gone without a meal in his life, nor has he ever experienced a temperature colder than the mid-60s.
He's packing on the weight--gained at least half a pound in the last couple weeks--all in his rump, the bottom-heavy lumpkin. And he's totally manic about feeding times. He woke me up at 4:30 this morning, convinced he was starving and needing his breakfast NOW NOW NOW. (He typically doesn't get fed until closer to 7:00.) Suffice it to say that sleep was neither restful nor plentiful for me last night. On a positive note, his winter coat is really coming in. He's all soft and fluffy, perfect for cuddling and proxy-pillow use.
britzkrieg, I hope you still want to talk to me after the skunk show . . .
Received another 1-day whip-snap reject from Surreal. I think I should let that market alone for a bit. These one-day rejections get disheartening in quick succession. While I'd prefer a one-day to an eight-month wait, there are happy mediums.
700 new words on the new fantasy piece. I've got a better idea of where it's going now. I think.