So, apparently, the very best set of circumstances for me to come up with new story ideas are as follows:
2. conversation with the lovely Kat, preferably silly conversation in which we discuss Rushdie's satanic eyebrows, story telling automatons, nonexistent perfumes, fight scenes that happen at the beginning and murder the story in a box, and cats.
Our collaborative powers are enough to make any sensible outline run away and incinerate itself. Yup. We are plot's worst fear.
But still. The ideas grow sparks in my head.
In other worlds, my hip flexors feel like really, super-duper, extra-strong rubberbands, which would be great, except that they're meant to be flexible. Ah well. All my muscles are rebelling, one at a time so I can pay them more attention.