So, my brain as mushy as a piece of gum dunked in vegetable oil, which I suspect my late-night excursion actually did turn it into, I developed the idea that the Argentinean and Satie were, ah, something of an item at one point. Oh, cork it, it’s no less possible than the idea of Satine making a sudden recovery and skipping off with her poet.

There actually is Moulin Rouge slash out there, as I recently discovered. I don’t know whether this is comforting or frightening, but it does exist. There are a few featuring Christian and the Argentinean, one of Toulouse lusting after the dear poet, and one of the Duke doing the same. Mine should fit right in, methinks, except for the lusting after Christian part.

Assuming, that is, I ever write the entire thing. I have a nasty habit of accumulating too much background information, see, which makes the writing process more arduous than it already is. I try to cram in too many details. I write sentences that stretch on forever. I get what Bly calls “comma-happy.” I ramble and babble until I can’t remember what the point of the bloody thing was supposed to be to begin with. This, I’ve since determined, makes me very good at writing extraneous backstories and very lousy at writing anything of actual merit. I’m attempting to break the habit.

Huh. Right. The same way I’m trying to break the habit of invoking the heavens every three seconds. Like that’ll happen. Heavens…

Another bit of this disturbing concept that bothers me is that, well, it verges on RPS, which I’ve never participated in, mainly because I’m pretty uncomfortable with it. Granted, Erik Satie is dead, which helps a bit (to say nothing of the fact that no one aside from mao seems to know he actually existed at all). I seriously doubt I could ever write in such a way about people who are still alive. I know I wouldn’t be too fond of it, were the roles reversed.

Hm. Why don't we hop along to a new subject here? I know! Let's talk about Ivy's troubles with drawing, since we've already seen her issues with writing. Yes, that's it; we've got a unified theme going now, jolly good.

So. Drawing. I finally broke down and bought a drawing book. And now I seriously wish I'd done it ten years earlier. Who knows, if I'd started ingraining trivial things like proportion and sight lines into my mind while it was still malleable, my scribbles might be several times better than they currently are.

But, la, I chose to hold such books in disdain. I did not wish to know how to draw superheroes, or horses, or cartoons. I pompously assumed I would figure it all out for myself.

As I still have a propensity to draw people's arms facing the wrong way, among other shortcomings, it seems safe to say my plan was something of a failure.

So, as I was saying before I saw fit to supply you, poor reader with too much background information, several run-on sentences, and copious commas (see above), I bought myself a drawing book. Which is actually an anatomy book. But still, I like it. And I think it might actually be helping. A little.

And that is all I have to say.

Adieu.