“Logy” means “dull and listless,” and I gotta say, that’s me. Clive Owen could appear at my doorstep holding a big-ass bottle of Pinot Noir, a pair of silver hoop earrings and a not-yet-released Loretta Chase book, and I’d just hold the door open and stare at him.
No loge. None at all.
I am trying to work on a synopsis of something I’ve written a chapter and a synopsis for; obviously, the synopsis I wrote originally isn’t working, I know it’s weak. So I gotta write a better one. The chapter is all kinds of fun, I laugh aloud when I read it, but it needs to be doing somewhere. I took notes yesterday, Carolyn Jewel-style, but I haven’t nailed it. I hope to tonight, when perhaps I will have more lists (i.e. not be listless) and full of more vim, less loge.
Meanwhile, tell Clive to give me a few days. I’ll be perky again.
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I don’t know Megan, this might be your only window of opportunity with Clive. If you turn him down, what’s to prevent him coming over to my house or Kwana’s. He might be just the thing to perk you up. I’m just saying.