Must. Sleep. Now.

Hot darn, but I’m tired.

We’re in the home straight now. The end is in sight, and both Hugh and I are staggering towards it, gasping for breath with every muscle crying out in pain. The problem is that the end point is deceptively far down the track. I keep thinking we’ve almost finished, then something else turns up, and we’re back to the mind-numbing task of checking every line of a 400+ word book for errors and changes.

Hugh’s making coffee right now, which I desperately need. I remember talking to Paul Marino some time ago. He described the last 10% of his machinima-book-writing-process in much the same way. This is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time. I’m on my last legs. If we don’t finish all our little tasks today (and it’s looking like we might not), you’ll find me on the floor in a fetal position, gibbering like a maniac.

Somebody call my mum and tell her to write me a note. I can’t do gym today.