Listening to: “Fools Gold” – The Stone Roses

I woke up this morning, on a friend’s spare bed 1/4 mile walk from my apartment, to what I’ve always envisioned when I hear the phrase “Nuclear Winter.” A fresh foot of snow on top of Tuesday’s older foot of snow, gusting winds, and driving hail that literally stings my cheeks, like those little folded-up paper thingees that people used to fling on rubber bands in elementary school, and they’d leave a welt if they hit you. Like that.

The good news is, my new fairly-fashionable-but-not-necessarily-practical boots withstood the elements.

Been working a bit more on “World’s End,” which I’m increasingly thinking needs to be a graphic novel. I was rereading some stuff I had jotted down in my orange notebook on the T. I had forgotten how awesome the Alex meets Satan scene is. In light of recent weather, I’m thinking there needs to be a nuclear winter scene. Alex is a meteorology student, so it only makes sense that some completely nonsensical weather should enter into the picture. You’ve got a black hole in East London already, so maybe nuclear winter should be in….Kensington? With glaciers in Hyde Park? Yeah. Yeah….

Last night at the Publick House, Ben, Ben, Zack, et. al. and I were discussing who would win in a fight: a werewolf or a dragon.

Ben S. and I agreed that it would be very much a matter of terrain. The werewolf would have advantage of agility, while the dragon would have size and fire-breathyness going for it. Most decided the dragon would win, but I still think there’s hope for the werewolf.

Then we thought: what if the werewolf (even if it ended up losing) bit the dragon? Then you’d have a… weredragon? No, but that’s not right either, because “were-” implies, I believe, that it turned into said beast from a human, and we all know this dragon was never a human. So maybe it’d be a wolf-dragon? Werewolf-dragon? Dragon-were…wolf?

It’s name would be inconsequential, however, because it would be the most powerful fucking thing on the planet. It would rip your throat out in under a second, no doubt about it, before you had the chance to ask it what it calls itself. And if it did keep you alive long enough to answer, it would probably say something like:

“The president of your skull. Bitch.”