my brain hurts a lot

Bugger. Forgot to post the fact that I have an extra ticket for wolverine_nun's PhD grad tomorrow afternoon. Anyone who's in that approximate vicinity and wants to watch her get officially zotted on her swanky cowpat hat, let me know.

Yay!, she says sarcastically, Cape Town heatwave season has started! I shall infallibly spend the next two months dragging myself around in a state of heat-stress enervation, repairing at intervals to the fainting couch to complain, weakly, of my ongoing headache. I did not evolve for this climate, dammit. I blame colonialism.

Today's particular headache, however, is probably also due to the bottle of champagne we killed earlier today at the Friendly Psychologist's slightly uproarious birthday lunch. Alternatively, it's a reaction against the sad fate of the favourite character who was apparently killed at the end of the Farscape season we finished watching this evening. Miffed about that. Joss flashbacks. The problem with any kind of series fiction is the sense of entitlement it creates in the fanatical watcher. The characters seem eternally available to parade for your enjoyment, and then the bastards yank it out from under your feet in the interests of narrative tension. Bugger narrative tension, say I.

On the upside, dragonroost, we've finished the season, it's yours to command. Please don't trample me in your rush, I'm sluggish in this weather.

Last Night I Dreamed: that David Bowie had played the part of Spike throughout the Buffy series. This worked surprisingly well, to the point where it took me a moment to disentangle the dream from reality when I woke up.