I blame the David Bowie Demons...

Oh dude, it really is true that each year you are out of uni more of your brain cells desert you or die or relocate into grey hair. Not that I've noticed any grey hairs on myself yet, but I notice the lack of working brain cells.

Either that, or the David Bowie Demons (who live in the ceiling) had actually borrowed my copy of Perfume - which you recall I was seeking in my last entry - and had only recently returned it to my bookshelf. Because I swear I searched the bookshelf for it before I posted that, and now, only now, can see it there, nestled up against Isabel Allende's The Stories of Eva Luna. Buggerations. But at least I found my book!

In other news, thinking about the David Bowie Demons makes me recall that just such a phenomenon was mentioned in that thing I fondly, indulgently refer to as "my novel". Even my mother has now taken up saying that I'm "pretending" to be a writer while also being a slave to cheese. Of course, if I would actually write something, then maybe it would be different. Maybe I should make the last so-far-unwritten chunk of the "novel" a Supernatural-style hunt for David Bowie Demons by the main characters (you will recall the dwarf Sam and the train-wreck Lola, who make up the band The Satanic Mechanics). Whoever said plots have to make sense? Also, why don't the boys on Supernatural ever hunt David Bowie Demons? It's almost like such a thing only exists inside my brain-cell-reduced head.