cellini's Diaryland Diary

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Why am I the one on brain detail?

Yes, gorgeous female Swedish documentary filmmaker, I would be very happy to appear in your film. I don't even care what its about. Let us discuss this matter some place more comfortable. Perhaps in your bed.

Because my bed is covered with My Little Ponies and Lincoln Logs at the moment.

Last night I wrote over 11,000 words. I'm trying to write today and finish this book but I'm just burned out and cannot think of another word that I would possibly want to write on the subject of bad snails, which are the topic of the chapter I need to write here.

The book is due tomorrow and I just have to tell my editor that its not ready yet. I hate to miss a deadline but I don't want to hand in shit.

I have to kill and butcher a couple of pigs tomorrow which I'm sort of annoyed about. Bob got these pigs in the spring and built a pen for them and has been fattening them all summer. He had an appointment at the slaughterhouse with them. But the smart little buggers refused to get in the truck so now he has to do them at home.

So now he needs me to come over to kill them and supposedly then I'll jsut be helping to hoist them up on a front-end loader and bleed them out and maybe help gut them. But I know perfectly well that I'm going to get stuck with the whole fucking butchering job because Bob cannot butcher worth a damn. He turns all of his deer into nasty, shapeless roasts with bits of leaves and shit on them. Wrapped up in waxed paper. Ew. He ages his roasts and then doesn't bother to carve off the rind. Its fucking disgusting.

This means I'm going to end up on fucking pig disassembly duty all night.

I don't even eat pork.

So close to being done with this book now. What a weird feeling that is going to be. This has consumed every day of my life for over a year now. I won't know what to do with myself after I hand it in.

9:43 p.m. - 2011-08-31

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