You win again, April.
I did manage to do a full scene workup yesterday. But my brain is like a caffeinated hamster scrabbling around inside my skull right now. I can't seem to get out of crisis-mode. I had scads of time to write today, but I spent all of it trying to chill the fuck out.
Related aside, to be filed under "weird things about me": you know what I enjoy waaaaaay more than I should? Reading ranty book reviews. In my chill-the-fuck-out attempts, I've been watching a lot of movies of the PG-13 summer blockbuster oeuvre, but it turns out I should have been reading mercilessly sardonic reviews of poorly written books instead.
I don't know what it is about them-- you'd think that, as an aspiring novelist, I'd be horrified to see an author's work savaged until it limps away clutching its genitals, but it cracks my shit up. And the effect is cumulative: the more ranty reviews I read, the funnier they become, until I am cackling like a crazy person with tears rolling down my cheeks. I know I'm setting myself up for all kinds of horrible future review karma by enjoying them so much, but right now I don't care, because after working my way through all the 1, 2, and 3 reviews at Books I Done Read, I feel like I spent the afternoon getting a pedicure and sipping on a drink with a little pink umbrella.