rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints

One tremulous performance in a play (there was a point under those stagelights when I forgot my name, let alone my lines), three graduations, and five parties later, I'm convinced that high-heeled shoes were invented by some insane misogynist, for the torment of women everywhere. Yeah, they look kind of hot, but I don't think my feet will ever be the same again.

Anyway. Craziness over. Time to breathe. Time for comfy shoes and those blessed things known as socks.

Many apologies to everyone that I haven't gotten back to yet. I'm trying to remember how to use a computer, because it's been much too long since time permitted me to get close to one. I need to be beaten over the head with a wet Lex (and, okay, not the worst form of punishment there), and just jump back into everything.

There's a story idea somewhere in the confused, overtired muddle of my head, and it's been kicking at me to get written. I wrote the first line about two weeks ago, but lately everything else has been consigned to being picked over in the few minutes between sleeping and awake, wanting words and a keyboard to attempt them.

Clark is never going to die.

Is. Pretty much all I've actually typed. I have so much respect for all of you folks who are productive and prolific that it isn't even funny. If I can get even a page written, I think I'll throw myself a party, sans high-heeled shoes. I'm going on a mini-vacation in a few days, so hopefully boring plane rides will provide inspiration. Cheerful thought, huh?

Although --

Clark and Lex joining the Mile High Club.

Hmm.