The Magic Nutshell

Pity without mercy. That about sums up how I feel about the people who are defending Brett Kavanaugh's alleged behavior, those who defend Ronald McBlumpkin's self-described behavior, and every numbnarded tool in this world who: gets off on degrading their sexual partner and then boasting about it to their supposedly-not-sexual-or-romantic friends, whose approval they desperately need brags about how they pay, coerce, or force people into sexual acts because they don't even realize it's not cute to admit they are devoid of personal attractions staggers around town like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, moaning about how "If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear" and also lawsuits, lots of lawsuits, and also mass barfing I feel a nauseous sort of disgust mixed with pity about such revolting human failures. It's the sort of pity that does not inspire well wishes so much as regret that this thing ever existed and that I had to know about it. Like, wha

What's dropping this fall? The temperature. The leaves that look like they're on fire. A vicious hailstorm of black walnuts. Maybe a completed draft of Matka Danu Miklagarth . And, one can only hope, Rammstein's last and greatest album of all time. I'm hurtling toward the finish of my work in progress, Matka Danu Miklagarth , listening to Rammstein live tracks while I write a scene of bloody battle in the old Cauldrons of the Iron Gates before the Danube was dammed. And I'm itching with anticipation for the upcoming Rammstein album, which is now being finished up with freshly recorded orchestra and choir tracks. It's gonna be epic. Ecstatic. Obscene. I hope! In the meantime, here's a cool mashup I found.

I do enjoy a slow burn, but I have to admit I'm getting impatient for Rammstein to release their last album after nearly a decade of waiting. We've heard that it will come to us sometime near the end of this year, but no other details have been made public yet. Meanwhile, I am still pounding out my own heavy work, my historical novel Matka Danu Miklagarth . I have set a goal for myself to try to finish the first draft before the Rammstein album release. In my mind, I'm sailing the Danube rapids on a burning ship, racing Rammstein. Yes, I know that makes no sense. And that's okay. Inspiration doesn't need to make sense. I need something to drive me to get this thing done before the end of the year. I've promised myself a sweet reward of whatever gloriously shocking special edition Rammstein ends up blasting into the world for their swan song--once I finish this draft. It's going to be a monster somewhere in the realm of 150K words, but that's okay--

Fall is my favorite season. The colors, the smells, the sweaters, the pies, the tacky and flashy and spooky and glittery holiday decorations, the hysterical cheer as summer's warmth and light fade away. I love it all. I am as excited as the next Pumpkin Spice Girl about the imminent change of seasons, and yet you will not see me out there at Target and Starbucks binging on hoards of fake plastic orange vegetation or diabeetus drinks with fake chemical aftertastes. You might, instead, see me outside, soaking up every last gift of the beautiful transitional month that is September in Michigan. Yes, I've been to a cider mill already and tasted the fresh harvest of pumpkin spice donuts. I also went to the beach just a few days ago with my daughter and friends. Nux reveled in the muck beneath the sand like a happy little piglet and swam to her heart's content in the still-warm water of a forest lake, because in September, fall is coming in, but summer hasn't left yet eit