The good news is that I got a freelance writing gig today, and I've been writing all day. It's a very boring product that I'm producing, but it feels good to be doing it. 

The bad news is that I have this horrible idea for an erotic vampire novel. I was thinking that I should write it, self-publish it on Amazon, and sell it for some ridiculously low price. Then I'll sell a zillion copies to people who don't know any better but at least they're reading (the Dogs Don't Know It's Not Bacon theory of publishing), and go to Vegas for the weekend where it's WARM and SUNNY, and I can drink 99-cent margaritas* outside. 

I thought, nah, I'm not a novelist, I have no prose writing skills. 

then I thought, what if the novel was entirely made up of e-mail messages? 

I'm trying to think of what my fake erotic vampire fiction novelist name should be. I think the imaginary chick who writes this novel is a Drunk J. Crew Model. 

Imma write a book

cause

books. 

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*don't worry, they water down the 99-cent margaritas unless you're actively gambling. 

In other news: The dogs are hating this weather. They're bored, but they can't be outside for more than maybe eight minutes because it's just too damn cold. I found some toys that you stuff treats into, on the theory that it's like a puzzle for them. I stuffed the little nozzles with food, smeared them with peanut butter, and figured that'd buy me about 20 minutes of peace and quiet. 

Bebe seems to have buried her toy somewhere in the house. Squeaky didn't seem interested at first. I tried to take a picture of her with it. When I approached her, she defended her prize, doing the "I'MA RIP YER THROAT OUT" growl. Notice that in this photo, she's trying to keep one eye on the toy and one on me.