I think G. has decided he likes me. It's official. When a cat comes into your room early in the morning and sleeps on your stomach, he likes you. Never can I walk by him without him begging for attention. I try to do this on the sly, but of course, every time I turn around, there's Orson . . . glaring malevolently at me.
I've changed the topic of my film history paper three times now. And this time the instructor doesn't even know it yet. Researching like crazy. I'm off to take a bath while I read my latest article on the Hollywood blacklist during the Red Scare. May include Elia Kazan, may not. I mean, how much effect did he have by naming names, anyway? HUAC already had its claws deep in Hollywood by that point, anyway. But still, I suppose they needed the formality. And the fact that he was willing . . . I don't know. I'm on the fence.
As you may have guessed, I've all but completely given up on NaNoWriMo. I may try to churn out something over Thanksgiving, but . . . I'll probably need a break. Next year for this doesn't look good, either. Sigh. I miss the days when I could read what I wanted, when I wanted. On the other hand, life isn't so bad right now . . .