How starved a reader must be to go for "Fair Games"? Shit, wasn't even that good, but honestly, I do have read every single existing piece of Krumggory ever written, and the sadest part of it is that I have written the 60-to-75% of it... and I'm the best of writers in the genre. No, ain't egomania or self-glorifying (I don't need it), but the ACTUAL AND ABSOLUTE TRUTH. morning_hell is good, really, she is, but her story comes ever once in a millenium and her quality has increasingly slumped with her last chapters. Would love to say otherwise, but this is it. Other than that, there's no Krumggory to be read in this planet. T_T Why, oh why am I not being showered with Krumggories? Why do I always have to love what's hard to get? Fuck it... You know, this is why I'm a writer, because if I want something, evidently I have to write it.
My head is already filled to the brim with snippets and stories, moves and pictures of great fiction. Oddly, I found myself writing a particular scene in detail in my journal, in Hungarian. The image itself is quite hot, two guys having sex against a wall, sweaty and glistening, with muted moans and only the sound of their hard breathing and the slapping of their flesh, but as I worded the scene in Hungarian I realized once again what I have always known: Hungarian makes it so much better. I'm one lucky bitch for knowing this fabulous, rich language.
The secretary, or assistant of the Director came to tell me that I'm moving to my new cubicle today. No more view, no more office, no more light for my own (which my boss seems to find so funny, though we were told the switches would be separated for the different cubicles)... then no more steps to climb, tow way in and out of the building, the possibility of total darkness, a space for a meeting area, view of everybody trying to make an exit of the building, a warmer place to work... it has its pluses and its minuses. In any case, where's the people to help me move? I have already detached my extensive post-it maps off the wall, packed what I could in the only box given to me.... where are the movers? The fuck with this fucking people...
My head is already filled to the brim with snippets and stories, moves and pictures of great fiction. Oddly, I found myself writing a particular scene in detail in my journal, in Hungarian. The image itself is quite hot, two guys having sex against a wall, sweaty and glistening, with muted moans and only the sound of their hard breathing and the slapping of their flesh, but as I worded the scene in Hungarian I realized once again what I have always known: Hungarian makes it so much better. I'm one lucky bitch for knowing this fabulous, rich language.
The secretary, or assistant of the Director came to tell me that I'm moving to my new cubicle today. No more view, no more office, no more light for my own (which my boss seems to find so funny, though we were told the switches would be separated for the different cubicles)... then no more steps to climb, tow way in and out of the building, the possibility of total darkness, a space for a meeting area, view of everybody trying to make an exit of the building, a warmer place to work... it has its pluses and its minuses. In any case, where's the people to help me move? I have already detached my extensive post-it maps off the wall, packed what I could in the only box given to me.... where are the movers? The fuck with this fucking people...
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