Author Archives: Nicola Cameron
Happy Friday, and a snippet from Intersection
Well, it’s the end of the work, and for most folks who observe Christmas the holidays will probably kick into high gear this weekend. Since the bulk of my decorating is now done, I thought I would celebrate with a teaser from Intersection. Some background: after finding out that her first love Ben Drake was still alive and being held at a Gold Rush-themed adventure park, Evie Contreras rescues him with the help of a mysterious organization that has been manipulating her academic and work career. Now held by them, she learns that cyborgs exist and Ben has been turned into one during his time at the park. She steals a security badge from one of the base officers to break into medbay and get the truth from Ben. Enjoy!
This time, the medbay doors opened obediently at her approach. Evie had been afraid that the base AI might stop her. Apparently her stolen RFID clip was enough to lull the AI into a sense of complacency.
Not after this, though. If Ballardie didn’t tell Lilith to check facial recognition against RFID codes from that point on, Evie would eat her tablet. She had one chance to see Ben, and she wasn’t about to waste it.
Pretend like you belong. That was easy enough; straight spine, a slightly bored but alert expression. She grabbed a pile of sheets from a pile on a small cart and carried them as a prop. The hallway ended at a round station manned by a very handsome, very bored man in red scrubs. His curly black hair had been cut short, and he needed a shave judging by the heavy five o’clock shadow, but his celadon eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Hel-lo,” he said in a drawled accent. “Did someone finally hear my plea for more help?”
“That’s what I was told,” Evie said brightly. “I’m Ally. Where do you need me?”
“Oh, my.” The man gave her a slow up and down that was lascivious and amusing at the same time. “Don’t ask me questions like that, love. I’m still on call for two more hours.”
She snorted, glancing at the ancient whiteboard propped up on the station’s counter. It had to be a list of patient rooms. “I bet you say that to all the new volunteers.”
“Only the ones who’ve stolen my heart.” He plunked his hand over his breastbone. “Promise me I’ll see you later, Ally. It may be the only thing that gets me through this deathly dull shift.”
She allowed herself a brief, amused grin. This one was a charmer, which made things easier and harder at the same time. Easier because he’d let her slide past. Harder because he’d definitely check out her ass as she walked away. “No promises…”
“Samir. Dr. Samir Haddad.” Something on his console beeped and he grimaced. “Oh, damn. Duty calls, love. I’ll catch you later?”
“You can try.” She turned and walked around the station, resisting the urge to hurry.
The station sat at the crosspoint of four corridors like a bull’s eye. Luck and left-to-right reading habits were with her and B corridor was opposite the one from the entrance. She headed down there, counting rooms until she came to B4.
The board had Drake, B printed neatly next to the B4 slot. Licking dry lips, she grabbed the door handle. The worst they would do was kick her out, maybe yell at her for boosting Rob’s RFID wand. She’d take that and much worse to be able to talk to Ben, her Ben, not some tarted up artificial persona that someone had programmed onto a chip.
She opened the door, ready to smile.
And stopped.
Her first thought was that she’d gotten the rooms mixed up somehow. Because the thing on the bed, it looked like Ben, yes, but it was missing both arms and everything from the middle of its chest on down. The holes in the body had been sealed neatly with glistening gelatinous caps, and a variety of tubes and wires ran from them to a mix of equipment arranged around the bed. Some of the tech she recognized from her own work, equipment regularly used in cybertech. The rest looked more like it belonged in a hospital room, with a person.
Not here. Not with this … mockery.
He really was an android, something in the back of her mind whispered. They lied to you, they all lied to you—
The Ben-thing opened its eyes. And looked at her with the most hesitant, heartbreaking smile. “Evie?”
She shook her head. Why was it lying to her? Why did it have to use Ben’s voice?
It glanced down, craning its neck. Blue eyes went wide, filling with horror. “No. Oh, God, no!”
She choked back a sob, shaking her head.
He looked up. Color flooded his face, making his eyes seem to glow as he stared at her. And then the horror disappeared, replaced by incandescent fury. “Get out!” he shouted, raising his head off the bed far enough to jostle some of the wires and tubes. Somewhere an alarm began to bleep. “Goddamn you, Evie, get out! Don’t look at me!”
She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to see any of this. Screwing her eyes shut, she fumbled for the door handle behind her.
“Get out!”
There it was. She stepped backwards, away from the impossibility on the bed. Away from the last, final hope she’d allowed herself to have.
She backed into someone. Turning, she looked up into Samir’s now-grim face.
He grabbed her arm, his grip not ungentle but impossible to escape. “I think we need to have a chat,” he drawled. “Don’t you agree, Ally?”
So, it’s cold here in the clavicle of Texas
Yes, I know that people in the northern parts of the United States, not to mention other parts of the world that enjoy a uncomfortable closeness to the Arctic and Antarctic Circles, are laughing their asses off at me right now.
But damn, it’s cold here. 36°F/2.2°C at the moment, and dropping to 28°F/-2.2°C overnight. My cold acclimatization is gone, people. 16 years of living here has given me the ability to tolerate high temps (with proper hydration and support), but it drops below 50°F (10°C for those of you playing along everywhere else in the world) and Nic turns into a shivering popsicle in search of warm clothing and cats to sit on her feet and keep them toasty because I’m wearing socks AND slippers at the moment and they’re still chilly.
I even brought my beautiful hand-crocheted thick triangle shawl out so that I could wear it while writing. The damn cats annexed it, and now insist that it remain piled on the short bookshelf at left so that they can snooze on it while I work. Since it keeps them busy so that I can work I’m reluctant to reclaim it, but damn, I have a space heater in here with both cat beds snugged alongside it. Must they claim my shawl as well?
But there is a bright side to today, namely that the full soundtrack to Westworld was released on iTunes, which means I have all of that lovely evocative music to listen to while working on Intersection. Assuming I can feel my fingers. Did I mention it was cold here?
Getting old is not for wimps
So I figured this was the weekend I would put up all the Christmas ornaments and trees (we have two — one in the library, and one in the kitchen because we can’t see the library tree from the living room). This required me to finish dusting everything in the library, wash both front windows, then bring in the HUGE tree box from the garage and the two tubs of decorations.
One eensy issue — about two weeks ago I somehow managed to strain the muscles in my right mid-back wrapping around to the front. No problem with standing and walking, but if I have to control any sudden front-to-back movement (like if I have to brake suddenly in the car) it spasms. It also spasms when I lift stuff or stretch forward or down. This is problematic when you are lifting large things like tree boxes and tubs full of Christmas decorations.
So there I was, moving all of this crap into the library and swearing under my breath, with that weird side muscle throbbing, and decide I’ll put up the stockings first. We have seven, one for Ramón and myself and one for each of the cats, and I had decided to use a tip I’d read online to get two stocking clips for a mantel and suspend a cafe curtain rod in it, then make little S hooks out of wire and hang the stockings from those.
Except that I hadn’t bought any of that yet. So off to Target I go, wincing at all the stops, and find stocking clips. Four for $20. Fuck THAT noise. Go over to take a look at cafe rods, get a nickel plated one, come back to the Christmas section to see if there’s anything I can jigger for mantel clips, when I find a set of two clips that have cute little chalkboards attached marked down to $8. At this point my back/side muscles are making themselves known, so I bite the bullet and get them. Come home, put everything up, and it looks great. Yay. I finish distributing the rest of the standing ornaments, then pull the ladder out of the closet to put up the garland over the door (which involves lifting and stretching). Also nice, although by now I’m in a certain amount of pain.
Then I dig out the window lights for the front windows. Unsurprisingly both 8-year-old strings are dead (protip — always plug in your lights to test them before putting them up). Back to Target I go, wincing even harder at the stops, and pick up some lights and some peppermint bark Ghirardelli squares (shut up, I earned them). On the walk back to the car the offended muscles go into one massive spasm and announce that I’m done for the night. Not being an idiot, I agree with them, go home, pop two Flexeril and proceed to sleep the sleep of the dead.
Woke up this morning with only a hint of an ache, and proceeded to put up the new window lights while Ramón shuffles around the place coughing his lungs up (there’s a reason why I’m doing all of this myself — he has a sinus infection, is on antibiotics, and feels like hammered shit so I told him to go sit down and rest). Putting up the window lights requires me to use clear push pins between the wires to hold them in the window frame, and to get on a small step ladder so that I can pin along the top of the frame and the decorative half-round glass at the top of the window. First window, the light string is five inches short of reaching the extension cord. Swearing, I pull it down and repin it around the window, taking care to stretch out all the kinks in the wire and keep it as straight as possible. I keep this in mind when I pin the lights around the second window and have no problem reaching the extension cord this time.
Both windows are now illuminated and look great. Meanwhile the tree is still in the box, and the cats are having a marvelous time climbing in and out of it. This, BTW, is a 7′ tree that is a royal pain in the ass to put together, and will require more stretching and bending just to get it upright. My strained muscles are currently saying, “You have maybe another hour out of us, then you will sit your ass down and watch Westworld, do you understand?”
So, yeah, if anyone wants to know why I’m not enthusiastic about putting holiday decorations up every year, now you know.
Fabulous Friday Reads: The Fortune Cookie
Aaaand it’s December, whee! Let’s kick off this lovely weekend with my good friend Matt Burlingame’s new M/M holiday romance from Dreamspinner Press, The Fortune Cookie. Take it away, Matt!
Thirty-three-year-old technical writer Laurence Hart is a modern-day Scrooge when it comes to the holiday season—and the rest of the year too. He doesn’t like most people, they don’t like him, and he’s happy to keep it that way. Over lunch with his best friend, he receives a fortune cookie promising him true love. The next day, forced to work on a holiday charity committee or lose his job, he meets Nick, a jolly ginger giant who loves all things Christmas. Together they face numerous obstacles to put together a holiday fair to raise money for children in foster care in only four days. While Laurence has to mend his curmudgeonly ways to make the event a success, Nick’s holiday magic might mend Laurence’s heart.
Story Excerpt
Laurence Hart was a man of average height and weight, with short dark hair and bright blue, almond-shaped eyes. He was the type of man people enjoyed being around. He was kind, easygoing, hardworking, and a good listener. He had a handful of close friends, was well liked by his coworkers, and though he was not what some might call traditionally handsome, he had no shortage of potential suitors.
That was the type of man Laurence was… in his twenties. Now, at age thirty-three, Laurence was… well….
“Hi, Larry,” Millie Sparks, the office intern, said as she entered his work cubicle. She reached into the box she was holding, removed a cardboard cutout of a decorated Christmas tree, and pinned it to a small cork message board, just as she had in all the other office cubicles. “Just spreading a little holiday cheer.”
He stopped his work, swiveled his chair to face the Christmas decoration, and in a low, controlled voice said, “My name is Laurence.” He then pulled the tree from the board and fed it through the shredder sitting to the right of his desk. He turned back to his computer and resumed his work without bothering to look up at her expression.
Millie started to say something but found herself being ushered away by Amanda, a very large woman in her late forties who sat in the cubicle to the left of Laurence.
“That’s right, dear,” Amanda said to her. “Lots more trees to hang up.”
“I only have Santas left.”
“Okay, on you go.” She gave Millie a little shove down the aisle before turning to glare at Laurence.
He knew she was there—he could feel it—but he refused to look up.
“You could have at least waited until she was on the next aisle,” Amanda scolded.
He sighed loudly. “It’s bad enough it’s been all over the building since the day after Halloween. I don’t want it in my personal space.”
As much as she wanted to tell him what a jackass he was, she knew it would do no good. He acted the same way every year. She took a look at her watch, saw it was lunchtime, and logged out of her computer.
“All right, Scrooge, I’m heading to the mall for lunch. You coming?”
Laurence logged off, grabbed his jacket, and walked beside Amanda as they made their way out of the building.
Half an hour later they sat in the second-floor food court eating Chinese food and discussing the latest office gossip. While Amanda found herself occasionally humming along with the blaring Christmas music coming from the holiday display just below them on the first floor, Laurence did his best to block it out.
Where to Buy
About the Author
Matt Burlingame is an award-winning journalist and playwright, living in Northern California. After 20 years of working for various LGBT newspapers, websites, and even cohosting a late-night radio show, he has retired from his aspirations of being the gay Murphy Brown to pursue his love of fiction writing.
His first book, the self-published dark comedy Sorry Charley, was released in 2012. He has written and cowritten over ten critically acclaimed plays including Recovery Mode, Poughkeepsie Porn Co., Countess Dracula, and the controversial Paperclip Messiah. His plays have been produced nationally, most notably in New York and St. Louis.
He has been a well known LGBT podcaster for over 10 years and produced and cohosted shows focusing on comedy writing, world events, comedy, theater, gay sex education and positive body image. With the support and encouragement of his two very demanding cats, seven fish, and lifelong friend Nephi, he has now immersed himself into the wonderful world of M/M romance.
Juggling writing and other stuff
As you know, Bob, writing tends to be a rather concentration-intensive thing. We have to focus on a screen and create worlds, people them with interesting characters, and then send the characters off on adventures that a reader wants to follow. All of which takes, yeah, concentration and time if you want to do a good job and produce quality work.
Thing is, very few writers have a staff of servants who can take care of everything so that all the writer has to do is focus on writing. Learning how to juggle writing with the other demands of everyday life is sorta kinda vital if you want to do this professionally. For example, I’m currently sitting perched on the edge of my seat while Jessica (the dilute grey tabby) is trying to snuggle in behind me because Jasmine (the charcoal tabby) is sitting on the back of the chair, which offends Jessica because she considers that spot her personal sitting space (even though she shares it with her brother Jeremy). The doorbell just rang with the pest control people who come around once a quarter to clear away any hornets’ nests and hit the foundation with pesticide. Oh, and I just got back from the store with food for dinner tonight and breakfast/lunch for the next three days as well as Ramón’s required Diet Coke. Before all that I filled all the food bowls, refreshed all the kitty water, scooped three litter boxes, swept up all stray litter and unloaded the dishwasher, making sure to put the clean recyclables in the recycling bin. Tonight I’ll make dinner (putting used pots into the dishwasher as I go to speed up Ramón’s cleaning the kitchen afterwards), then finish dusting the bookshelves here and vacuuming the floor all through the front rooms in preparation for putting up Christmas decorations tomorrow. That doesn’t include any laundry that needs to be done, any piles of unexpected cat vomit that need to be wiped up, or spot-cleaning.
And my life is pretty easy compared to someone who’s a parent and holds down a job at the same time. I could say “screw it” and completely give up on housecleaning while I work (and I have done), but I truly hate living in a dirty house and it distracts me from writing. So I juggle. I feed the cats, clean the litter boxes, and sweep up litter, then I answer email. I go to the store and I think about the next scene I want to write while I’m picking up carrots and green beans. I tell the Moxie guys to go ahead with the pest stuff, then I put on headphones and write while they’re bustling outside. I check social media, find one of my favorite photographers asking what people are working on so that she can schedule useful shoots, and tell her what kinds of covers I’ll need. While I cook tonight I’ll work out dialogue in my head (Ramón says he can always tell when I’m doing that because I make faces to go along with the dialogue), and put it down afterwards while R loads the dishwasher.
Would I rather have staff to handle all that while I work? Oh, hell yes. But I don’t, so I have to find ways to make everything that needs to happen, happen. And even with all this juggling, it’s still the best damned job in the world and I wouldn’t give it up unless I had to.
But Santa, if you could make that twice-monthly cleaning service happen next year, I for one would be deeply grateful.
Okay, so, thinking about a holiday short here
Hi, I’m Nicola, and I used to write fanfic. I love good fanfic — it’s the modern version of folk tales about your favorite heroes. And yes, not all fanfic is good fanfic, but when you can find a superb writer (like the immensely talented Cincoflex), you just wallow happily in the product and thank God that they decided to write it all down.
So, yeah, fanfic. Now, the fun part about fanfic is that someone else has created the universe, so all you really have to do is write about the continuing adventures of Your Favorite Character, which takes a lot of the strain off of you as a writer. You don’t have to worry about world-building, exploring the background of various characters, or explaining what the hell your MC is doing in X location because most of that will already be known by the fans.
But. If you dust off one of your own favorite fanfics, notice that it’s already 10K words, and decide to see if you can’t file off the serial numbers and make it an original story, you wind up running into all kinds of issues like, well, who is your MC? What are their motivations? What’s their world like? How did they get into this particular pickle? How are they going to get out of it, in detail? And it’s all got to deviate from the borrowed universe so that it’s, you know, original.
Luckily, answering all these questions significantly expands the story. And this really is a fun story. So while I’m still working on Intersection, I may also have a short holiday story out in the two weeks or so. Whee!
Emerging from the rubble of Thanksgiving
Well, I say “rubble” — to be honest I ate at a friend’s house so all I had to clean up were the two pans I used to roast Brussels sprouts. But this year’s holiday did feel a little rough — for one thing Ramón had a horrendous cold and stayed home so as not to infect anyone else, and he’s been coughing and sneezing on and off since Thursday. For another, I have been feeling ridiculously irritable, and not for any obvious reason apart from the fact that my own nose is a little stuffy (but that’s normal — I live with five cats. My nose is ALWAYS stuffy). Shark Week won’t happen for another 20 days or so, Fertile Day doesn’t happen until Tuesday, so whatever is going on doesn’t seem to be hormonally driven. But man, the J Crew has been getting on my nerves at every turn. By now I’m kinda used to them following me from room to room (I am never without a cat unless I manually turf them out of the room and close the door), but the constant demands for attention feel like someone is rubbing my nerves with salt-covered barbed wire. And 2016’s sadistic pleasure in taking away yet more awesome people (Ron Glass? Seriously, 2016? What the fuck is wrong with you?) is not helping my mood at all.
I dunno. Maybe I just need to get out of here for awhile or something. A drive might soothe my nerves.
Apropos of nothing apart from the fact that it’s Small Business Saturday and I need to do required promo, I’m running a Black Friday sale at my Etsy store until Wednesday, and at this point I may extend it to Friday for shits and giggles. So if you like nifty handmade OOAK jewelry (e.g. at right is Viserion, a dragonstone cabochon wrapped in antique brass and a tiger’s eye bead), go over and check it out, and make sure to use promo code BLACKFRIDAY40PERCENT at checkout to get 40% off your entire order. Such a deal!
It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like A Clean House
Yeah, no, I’m not celebrating Christmas just yet, unlike my sister whose house looks like Santa came all over it from mid-November through the first week of January. That meme at right? That’s us. I’m Theoden. She’s Buddy Elf. No, I don’t understand how we’re related, either.
That being said, I am continuing my “mourning for my country” cleaning kick, which means that every vacuum in this house has had its filter cleaned, the downstairs AC system filter has been replaced, the dining room has been cleaned, dusted, and vacuumed, most of the living room has been cleaned, dusted, and vacuumed (I still have to tackle the end table next to Ramón’s seat), the kitchen has remained spotless for an entire week, and the place smells great. My core muscles are also aching like a bitch, so today I’m focusing on paperwork (paying bills, filing receipts, mailing off stuff to various folks), writing, and critting a story for my writing group tonight. By the time Friday rolls around the entire downstairs should be clean so I can put up all the Christmas ornaments on time for once.
Of course, I still have to clean upstairs, but hell, even that’s getting done bit by bit. By the end of the month this entire place may not only be decorated, but spotless as well. Whoa.
Flipping back to writing news, Ramón used that huge brain of his to break a little problem I’ve been wrestling with for the past few days (how would rich people shop thirty years from now) and in doing so significantly expanded the background of Intersection AND gave me more insight into my heroine Evie. Looking forward to tackling that scene later this afternoon, I am. I’ve also been having a lot of fun having the occasional Twitter exchange with the lovely actor who inspired me to write this thing in the first place, so I’ve got that going for me as well.
Marvelous Monday Reads: Bound By Destiny
Welcome to another edition of Marvelous Monday Reads, angels! Today I’m featuring Allyson Young and her new shifter romance Bound By Destiny (Blue Star Shifters). Take it away, Allyson!
River Fortuna’s wolf is awake and pacing, anticipating their first heat. Traumatized by early misunderstandings of shifter sexuality, River intends to avoid being claimed at all cost. She doesn’t plan on meeting handsome, virile Alpha Jett Reeves.
Jett is instantly drawn to River, his pheromones flooding to trigger her heat and force her sexual surrender, despite her tangible—and unlawful—means of avoidance.
Initially a mindless slave to her hormones, River comes to accept Jett past his ability to assuage her sexual need and falls in love with him. Unable to label his myriad of feelings, Jett doesn’t reciprocate, and she is devastated, realizing she is locked in a lifelong, loveless partnership.
Attacked by a rogue shifter, River wakes with no memory, and Jett must face the fact that what he felt for River all along was love—and find a way to bring her back to him.
Story Excerpt
They rode the elevator to the sixth floor in near silence, the eddies of lust making the small space nearly insufferable for him, and his mate leaned against the wall as though she might slip to the floor any moment. Her brow and temples glistened with sweat and her fingers twitched spasmodically. She was coming into her full heat and fighting it all the way.
Stepping off when the doors opened, he strode in the direction the small arrow indicated and found the room within several yards. The key card gave them entrance and he flicked on the light. He shoved the cases just inside the door, blocking the heavy panel with his forearm so it wouldn’t close. “In you go, River.”
Did women trudge? His woman did, despite the trembling of her entire body. His heart ached at her trepidation despite the all-encompassing lust he experienced. Her head down, intense need radiating to pull him in, he threw the deadbolt, and then gave in to what their nature decreed.
Thrusting his hand through her thick mane, his fingers weaving among the long, silky strands just as he’d fantasized, he drew her head back and forced her to look him in the eyes. Hers were dilated, the rich brown irises nearly eclipsed by the stark black of her pupils. Square, white teeth clenched her full bottom lip, presumably to control panting, because she drew draughts of air in through her nose. He could detect the threads of resignation weaving through her vast need, her intense heat rapidly eclipsing any coherent thought. Regret that he’d caused this once again pierced his own narrowly shrinking focus—but only briefly. He lowered his head and took her mouth.
Sweetness and life burst over his senses at his first taste, and he groaned against her full lips even as his tongue made a foray past them. River totally surrendered, as female wolves do when they met their fated mate, and he barely had time for that thought—fated mate—before he wrapped an arm around her limp form. Two steps and they fell to the big bed, the mattress compressing beneath their combined weight as he ravished her mouth. She opened to let him in and gave up all the flavor that was uniquely her.
He reluctantly tore his lips away to rear up and shred the plain shirt that hid her from his view. Her lightly tanned skin filled his vision as her utilitarian bra met the same fate, and he noted with pleasure how modest her tan lines were. His wolf rose up. Mine. The growling claim resounded in the room and her eyes fluttered open and she blinked. Behind the thicket of her dark lashes, a sexual haze again blurred the rich chocolate, and her lids drifted shut.
Once they came to know one another, their coming together could be slowed and savored, but for now, he needed to visibly establish his claim. His frantic cock shuddered in agreement as he demolished the tough denim of her jeans, taking care not to score her soft skin with a claw.
With her nude beneath him, his gaze drawn to the soft, pale fur at her apex, he willed his other-self back, and his claws retracted. Lord knew what she’d seen when she’d stared up at him. Probably a wild-eyed beast intent on its succulent prey, and he blessed the Mother and the mating heat that River hadn’t screamed in fear. Only an alpha could partially shift, and it was unlikely she’d seen one in such a state before.
His own apparel fell away as he quickly stripped and then blanketed his mate’s writhing form. Velvety flesh met his own in a haze of heat and sensation.
“Please.” Her plea was strangled and all the more evocative because of it.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Always.”
Where to Buy
Evernight | Amazon | Bookstrand | All Romance eBooks
About Allyson Young
Allyson Young lives in cottage country in Manitoba, Canada with her husband and numerous pets. She worked in the human services all across Canada and has seen the best and the worst of what people bring to the table. Allyson has written for years, mostly short stories and poetry, published in small newspapers and the like, although her work appeared in her high school yearbooks too! After reading an erotic romance, quite by accident, she decided to try her hand at penning erotica.
Allyson will write until whatever she has inside her is satisfied- when all the heroes man up and all the heroines get what they deserve. Love isn’t always sweet, and Allyson favours the darker side of romance.
The One Where Nicola Goes To The Movies
Okay. If you are still mourning/angry/frightened/upset at the events of last week, and you enjoy smart science fiction, language, and philosophy, drop what you’re doing and go see Arrival. It is thought-provoking, insanely intelligent, entertaining as hell, and should be considered up there with 2001 and Contact in smart SF cinema.I’d read the short story by Ted Chiang so there weren’t any real surprises for me, but as my friend Bill observed they added some very well-judged scenes to clarify certain things, as well as a realistic subplot to increase the tension.
Moreover, it is better than Valium in calming your nerves and helping you center yourself. Yeah, I know, I just said that they added a tension-increasing subplot. You’re still going to walk out of there feeling calmer and ready to take on what needs to be taken on. Seriously, go see it.
In the meantime, Ramón and I are going to see Doctor Strange in a couple of hours because we haven’t had a Date Night since September and gosh darn it, we deserve one. Luckily people have warned me that the 3D version can get kinda urpy at times if you’re prone to motion sickness (which I am), so we’re going to the regular version. And while I am not the aficionado of the Batch that many of my friends are, I do appreciate his aesthetics and am looking forward to him sounding like Greg House’s son for two hours.
Nicola Cameron Writes 