Not to be presumptuous…

…but I am gollydarned proud of myself right about now.

50,041 words on a single piece of fiction in 30 days.
I honestly didn't think this was going to happen.
Now I just need to do some brutal editing on the 4,598 words of something akin to total rubbish that I churned out in the last two hours to make it happen.  And some less murderous editing on the rest of it, which isn't nearly as bad but still very rambling and untenable to an unbiased reader's judgment, I'm sure.
…Also, I need to finish it.
There's probably another 10,000 words in this thing, and somebody shoot me if I am not going to finish this creature I spent a month pouring a good deal of my lifeblood into.  (Ignore the preposition on the end of that sentence, please, except insofar as you need to cognitively process it for semantic intelligibility.)
(Ignore anything else I write that doesn't make sense.  I am so jacked up on words and long sentences right now that could probably invent a subspecies of incoherent English on the spot [because, you know, we don't have enough of it already].  If I lived in Britain, I could probably also give Donna Noble a run for her money for the notable position of the fastest-typing temp in Chiswick.  At least until the caffeine from my tea wears off, at which point I would just go to bed.)

I also cannot believe that was a whole month.  November has been insanity.  Really compressed insanity.  I think there are whole days that time-traveled out of themselves and passed me by without so much as a wave of greeting.  Actually, I'm rather surprised it didn't turn out like more of a train wreck in the end.

Also, speaking of writing, I have two math papers due tomorrow that I lovingly put off writing especially for this.  So I go, back to the keyboard.  (On another bright note, only three weeks left of school!  The end is in sight!  Tally-ho! [Maybe too in sight for comfort, actually…].)
But I am happy right now.  And not as sleepy as I likely ought to be.