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.

Oh my gosh.  I have been thinking/writing in Sentences In Which Every ("Important") Word Begins With a Capital Letter all day (well, all day Saturday, which was 19 minutes ago).  And trying to generalize everything into a Category With a Catchy Name.  This is bad.  I've only been on it three times, but TvTropes is going to ruin my life.

Just like this guy.  And he's two-dimensional; he hasn't even got an actual brain to fry on the Internet.

Why do we watch TV shows and read books where we spend the whole time desperately wanting to beat the main characters senseless for their idiocy?

Jane Austen was good at catharsis.  She could make a reader miserably frustrated and sad and upset, and still achieve poetic justice in the end.  She could infuriate a reader, drag out the suspense, throw in agonizing twists, but it would all come out right in the end.  There were a little strings of sweetly packaged happy endings that justified all the pain it took to get there.  It might have been a little deus ex machina, but it worked.  Jane Austen wrote romance like childbirth.  (Is that a weird analogy for someone who's never experienced it to use?  It seemed apt, from what I've heard.)  [ Normal mundanity —> "Wow! Really?" Excitement —> Lots of discomfort —> happiness embodied. ]

There's this one Australian TV show, of which I have seen about twenty random episodes, which does not do catharsis well.  The frustration and suspense and frustration and agony and frustration and denial and frustration feminist idiocy just goes on and on and on...and then, two seconds after one thing is resolved, something else comes up.  'Tis unbelievably infuriating.  These characters have inhuman communication problems.  Is it humanly possible to take potentially miserably circumstances and throw every possible wrench into them to cause as much emotional wrack and ruin as one could possibly milk out of the mess, to the degree these people do?  Is there no end to what these people do to themselves?  If I were them, I would have burned something down, and keeled over and died, or at the very least punched someone in the face.  (Goodness knows there's more than a few people there who could use it.)  But it's to the point where everytime something starts going well—every time it starts playing the nice fluty Shire music—I cringe, because I can't help but be afraid that twenty minutes later it will start playing some horrific pop ballad that closes the curtains on yet another broken heart.  These people are such stuffers.  They're really awful at communication.  They're not even good at passive-aggressiveness!  There is a halfway decent catharsis every eleven or twelve episodes (all the ones I don’t see, eh).

Of course, it probably isn't all that inhuman.  I am sure there are probably hundreds of people out there who are horrific at sorting out conflict (although I'm still hard-pressed to believe anyone has as much conflict in their livers as these Australian farmers.  I mean, so much goes wrong it would be comical if it weren't so bleeding infuriating.) and who stuff all their anger and never talk and just take everybody else's word for every little thing and just wallow in misunderstandings.  And maybe I'll grow up into that kind of a world.  But one can dream, right?  One can hope for the perfect Austen romance instead of the crazy bad-desicion-nonexistent-communication black hole relationships of fictional Australian people.  A girl can dream...

And carry a big stick, too, just in case.