My reaction to toast is very much like the varied reactions Superman has to Red Kryptonite: sometimes I feel a bit bloaty, sometimes my mouth feels a bit metallic, sometimes I have a very small wave of euphoria and giddiness (that might be the Marmite, not sure), sometimes I fall asleep, sometimes I turn evil and raid the nearest jewellers, laughing maniacally as the hapless security guards' bullets bounce offf my chest.
So, yes, I had some toast earlier, and fell asleep, and now I have a selection of Rolex watches in the corner of my room with no idea how they got there.
I'm working on two different projects at the moment, and am at the 'waiting for people to get back to me' stage, hence my sybaritic abandonment to the world of toast-without-consequence. The first job requires me to work up some storylines for a new children's series, the second is to write some sample scenes for a not-children's series about... people doing things (I think I'm supposed to be confidential about both of them). One of them is a proper commission, and the other one is in the hopes of getting a proper commission, and I can't quite remember which is which, so I have applied myself with equal professionalism to both. Or, quite possibly, neither.
Anyway, when I woke up, surrounded by crumbs and Rolex watches and spoilt international playgirls whose last scattered pseudo-memories were of standing on a tall building in a faraway city only to have this, like, blur snatch them away to a faraway land where the pasties roam, I thought 'How would dead-ends from rejected 'Choose Your Own Adventure' books go?'
And sure enough, someone had worked it out:
Dead Ends from Rejected “Choose-Your-Own-Adventure” Books
And then I thought - 'what about writing A Style Guide for Blog Parodists
But that had been done too! 'Yay'! And v/ funny both were, particularly the Hiawatha bit down the bottom of the Style Guide thing.
Back to sleep now, for I deal with the very stuff of dreams, and thus a writer's work can never really be done.