urgle, my head

Twitter is addicting. If I'm not updating very often here, it's because everything I have to say is over there. Which doesn't mean it's very interesting at all, of course.

Ugh, I think I have an ear infection with this stupid cold.

I'm about 500 words away from 19,000 words for the next Supersaturation installment, and I've got maybe one and a half scenes left to write. It's going to be so confusing. We shall see. Here, have more drunk Kennerty.

“Quit being a girl about it,” Chris says, because Chris is an unsympathetic asshole. “So you lost Joe. He’s the one who wandered off in the first place.”

“It’s a big deal,” Mike says, struggling up until he’s propped against the wall, one leg dangling off the end of the mattress. “Bryar thinks it’s a big deal. Plus, you know,” he flaps a hand around, “that whole mess with Urie and Wentz. And, oh god, remember,” he snaps his fingers, “remember when DeLeon got turned into a giant cat?”

Chris rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t you, dumbass. That was Ballato.” He grabs the bottle off the mattress and takes a healthy swig.

Mike watches him swallow, bleary-eyed, and says, “Aren’t you on duty, Gaylor?”

“Whatever.” Chris shrugs.

It’s late. At least, Mike thinks it’s late. He’d stolen the rum from Morris around ten, so it’s gotta be well past midnight now. The infirmary is mostly empty. Crawford’s watching them with half-mast eyes and a bemused curl of his lips, but it’s not like Mike cares. Mike’s a fucking mess; he has no idea what he’s still doing on Atlantis, except for the fact that he feels like they’re all fucking messes, in some way, and that’s really fucking profound for someone who’s consumed a fifth of Mount Gay.