And I am home.
And I am massively, monstrously exhausted.
So I am going to crash. Torchwood can wait. Given what I’ve heard about Day Five, I am not in the mental or emotional state right now to process that.
Wait, that sounds weird. Or possibly even bad. When it’s neither. I’m just exhausted, and given the direction Torchwood is going, trying to watch it now would not be good.
That makes more sense.
I met a bunch of people this year. I did several panels. I spent way too much time in the bar. But hey, it’s what writers do at sci-fi conventions.
I think this may be the first convention where I bought absolutely nothing in the Dealer’s Room. But strangely enough, I didn’t even go into the Dealer’s Room until this afternoon.
I did, in fact, have an omelet and a Belgian waffle for breakfast on Saturday. Sunday’s breakfast was an omelet and apple-stuffed pancakes. The breakfast buffet is a little pricey, but it’s a Shore Leave tradition with me.
And I told many and sundry the story of the divine retribution I called down a few years ago upon the person who dared to infringe upon my Shore Leave breakfast routine. (The tale is funnier the more I’ve had to drink, I should mention.)
Also, I shouted down some bad filkers. It had to be done.
Also, snorting vodka out the nose fucking hurts.
Also, I lost my wallet. Fortunately, it was found. But that was a harrowing hour.