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Fell asleep on my laptop with all my gdocs open watching South Park like a boss; woke up with this in my head. Reverse insomnia, what? I have got to stop doing this.
( someday this will be titled. maybe. )
( someday this will be titled. maybe. )
To the motherfucking dipshit asswipe who clipped my car in the parking lot tonight:
Thank you. No, really--the dent you left by my headlight adds a certain amount of je ne sais quoi to my ride, don't you think? And the scrapes of pale green paint were a really nice touch; they stand out beautifully against the blue, scream accident in bight neon letters better than any imitation could. You probably didn't leave a note out of shame, or fear of a higher premium, or an inability to take responsibility for your actions like the fucking adult you're supposed to be, but what's a little insurance information between friends, right? You've given me so much more than any kind of settlement could--here I thought I was just running to grab an egg roll and some General Tso's, and I got a reaffirming sense of violation and irritation and screaming rage instead.
I feel a little forward asking for a favor, considering all you've done for me tonight, but it's just a small thing, so I'm going to ask anyway. If you could kindly proceed to your nearest fire--whichever is most convenient for you, of course, I'm not picky, and I know how you like taking the easy way out--and then go ahead and die in it, I'd really appreciate it.
Cheers,
Jizz
Thank you. No, really--the dent you left by my headlight adds a certain amount of je ne sais quoi to my ride, don't you think? And the scrapes of pale green paint were a really nice touch; they stand out beautifully against the blue, scream accident in bight neon letters better than any imitation could. You probably didn't leave a note out of shame, or fear of a higher premium, or an inability to take responsibility for your actions like the fucking adult you're supposed to be, but what's a little insurance information between friends, right? You've given me so much more than any kind of settlement could--here I thought I was just running to grab an egg roll and some General Tso's, and I got a reaffirming sense of violation and irritation and screaming rage instead.
I feel a little forward asking for a favor, considering all you've done for me tonight, but it's just a small thing, so I'm going to ask anyway. If you could kindly proceed to your nearest fire--whichever is most convenient for you, of course, I'm not picky, and I know how you like taking the easy way out--and then go ahead and die in it, I'd really appreciate it.
Cheers,
Jizz
Right, so, in order for me to tell you this story, there are three things you need to know about me.
1) I wear sunglasses constantly, large ones that cover the top of my face. Jackie-O sunglasses, if you will. The size of them is half a fashion choice and half because I'm prone to migraines that are triggered by side-light exposure; the fact that I wear them constantly is a tic I inherited from my father. It does not have to be sunny for me to be wearing sunglasses. It doesn't even have to be threatening sunshine. Sun does not factor in the equation at all. As a general rule, I am in sunglasses if (a) I am outdoors and (b) it is day. I CAN'T HELP IT, GUYS. I NEED THEM TO LIVE.
2) The house that I live in at the moment has a number of fabulous amenities, but the driveway is not one of them. It is long. It is thin. It is raised about an inch off the beds of soft grass that surround it. This would be entirely acceptable if I lived somewhere like Arizona, or Florida, or even Kentucky--warm or warmish places, places where the sky does not open up and spit down ridiculous amounts of snow every two days or so. In Cleveland, where the average yearly snowfall is FIFTY SIX INCHES, this driveway is not acceptable. It is, in fact, unacceptable. Whoever made the executive decision to build it in this way should, in my humble and admittedly biased opinion, be taken out back and shot.
3) I am sure, somewhere out there in the wide wide world, there are women who weep daintily into their handkerchiefs at entirely appropriate moments, retaining both their dignity and class while doing so. I am equally sure that there are women who, while they might not be dainty about it, cry only when acceptable circumstance demands it--when they are sad, for example, or perhaps deeply and unutterably horrified. I, because I've never found a convention I couldn't merrily if accidentally flout, cry only in one circumstance: when I am hideously, furiously, stab-someone-in-the-face pissed off.
SO, NOW THAT YOU KNOW THESE THINGS ABOUT ME, ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY AFTERNOON.
I made the cardinal error of deciding to leave my home--I know, I know, what was I thinking, how dare I tempt the universe in such a way, I'M SO TERRIBLE--to run a quick errand. I pulled on my boots and my jacket and my little scarf, I slid my trusty sunglasses onto my face (state of sunshine: non-existent), and I went out to my car.
Me: Okay, car, hello, lovely to see you, let's just back down the driveway nice and easy to get to the road, yes?
Car: WHERE WE'RE GOING, WE DON'T NEED ROADS.
Me: But we're going to...the gas station...
Car: NO, WE'RE GOING TO THE EDGE OF THE DRIVEWAY AND SLIDING INTO THE SNOW.
Me: I'm sorry, car, but *I* am in control of the vehicle, so I think that in fact we are going to just back down nice and easy and...slip on the ice and...GODDAMN IT CAR I HATE WHEN YOU ARE RIGHT.
Car: Well, maybe next time you should appreciate my Back to the Future references, I am just saying.
At this point I decided that my car was not worth listening to, and began the process of trying to rock it back and forth out of the snowbank. Which, generally, works. THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME I HAVE BEEN STUCK IN THE SNOW, because I've been driving for five years and living in Cleveland for most of that. I am, by and large, pretty skilled as a snow driver.
However, some days are just motherfuckers.
Me: C'mon, baby, please, please, please, please--
Car: What is this, one of your ridiculous fanfictions? TALKING DIRTY TO ME WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.
Me: It's been half a fucking hour, there's only so long I can fucking do this--
Car: That's what your mother said last night!
Me: FUCK YOU YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF FILTHY FUCKING SHIT FUCK YOU AND FUCK THE FACTORY YOU WERE BUILT IN AND FUCK EVERY ROAD YOU'VE EVER DRIVEN ON AND EVERY TIRE YOU'VE EVER TOUCHED YOU EVIL GUS-GUZZLING MOTHERFUCKING WHORE.
Please note, while most of this dialogue between me and my car has been fabricated for obvious reasons (this just in: cars don't talk), that last thing actually came out of my mouth. At a volume decidedly higher than was acceptable. Additionally, by this point I was so angry that I had, in fact, started crying, which only exacerbated my rage, and as such only increased my volume, and as I was screaming and revving the engine uselessly and pounding on the steering wheel like a crazy person...
...a kind stranger willing to help me out knocked on my window.
NOW, LIVEJOURNAL, UPSETTINGLY ENOUGH, THIS IS NOT THE MOST EMBARRASSING THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME IN MY DRIVEWAY. That award still goes to the time my neighbor caught me outside at 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday, wearing a robe and tie-dye pants tucked into white Ugg boots, smoking a cigarette and drinking cranberry juice out of a wine glass because the dishwasher contained all my other drinkware. In an attempt to assure her that I was not so much of a lush as I seemed, I hastily said "Oh, no, it's totally okay, this was just the biggest cup I could find!" This...did not endear her to my cause.
However, despite it being only the second-most embarrassing thing to ever have occurred in my driveway, it was still HIDEOUSLY OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK MORTIFYING. By all right this guy should have taken one look at me, said "EGADS, WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT, WITH HER PUFFY FACE AND HER INAPPROPRIATE-FOR-THE-WEATHER GIANT SUNGLASSES AND HER FOULLY SHRIEKING MOUTH," and headed directly for the hills. But this stranger--who didn't give me his name, just flitted in and out of my day to assist me and was gone before I could thank him--this stranger did not do that. Instead he spent fifteen minutes of his time pushing my car out of the rut and setting me free.
SO, today's tales of my tragically ridiculous life are brought to you by the letter A, the number 2, and the concept of paying it forward. BE KIND UNTO STRANGERS, GUYS, EVEN CRAZY ONES. Because sometimes, sometimes, crazy people are just girls like me, who can't help that their car is a gas-guzzling whore.
Or, if you're not willing to do that, then at very least consider looking into upgrading your plow service.
♥
1) I wear sunglasses constantly, large ones that cover the top of my face. Jackie-O sunglasses, if you will. The size of them is half a fashion choice and half because I'm prone to migraines that are triggered by side-light exposure; the fact that I wear them constantly is a tic I inherited from my father. It does not have to be sunny for me to be wearing sunglasses. It doesn't even have to be threatening sunshine. Sun does not factor in the equation at all. As a general rule, I am in sunglasses if (a) I am outdoors and (b) it is day. I CAN'T HELP IT, GUYS. I NEED THEM TO LIVE.
2) The house that I live in at the moment has a number of fabulous amenities, but the driveway is not one of them. It is long. It is thin. It is raised about an inch off the beds of soft grass that surround it. This would be entirely acceptable if I lived somewhere like Arizona, or Florida, or even Kentucky--warm or warmish places, places where the sky does not open up and spit down ridiculous amounts of snow every two days or so. In Cleveland, where the average yearly snowfall is FIFTY SIX INCHES, this driveway is not acceptable. It is, in fact, unacceptable. Whoever made the executive decision to build it in this way should, in my humble and admittedly biased opinion, be taken out back and shot.
3) I am sure, somewhere out there in the wide wide world, there are women who weep daintily into their handkerchiefs at entirely appropriate moments, retaining both their dignity and class while doing so. I am equally sure that there are women who, while they might not be dainty about it, cry only when acceptable circumstance demands it--when they are sad, for example, or perhaps deeply and unutterably horrified. I, because I've never found a convention I couldn't merrily if accidentally flout, cry only in one circumstance: when I am hideously, furiously, stab-someone-in-the-face pissed off.
SO, NOW THAT YOU KNOW THESE THINGS ABOUT ME, ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY AFTERNOON.
I made the cardinal error of deciding to leave my home--I know, I know, what was I thinking, how dare I tempt the universe in such a way, I'M SO TERRIBLE--to run a quick errand. I pulled on my boots and my jacket and my little scarf, I slid my trusty sunglasses onto my face (state of sunshine: non-existent), and I went out to my car.
Me: Okay, car, hello, lovely to see you, let's just back down the driveway nice and easy to get to the road, yes?
Car: WHERE WE'RE GOING, WE DON'T NEED ROADS.
Me: But we're going to...the gas station...
Car: NO, WE'RE GOING TO THE EDGE OF THE DRIVEWAY AND SLIDING INTO THE SNOW.
Me: I'm sorry, car, but *I* am in control of the vehicle, so I think that in fact we are going to just back down nice and easy and...slip on the ice and...GODDAMN IT CAR I HATE WHEN YOU ARE RIGHT.
Car: Well, maybe next time you should appreciate my Back to the Future references, I am just saying.
At this point I decided that my car was not worth listening to, and began the process of trying to rock it back and forth out of the snowbank. Which, generally, works. THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME I HAVE BEEN STUCK IN THE SNOW, because I've been driving for five years and living in Cleveland for most of that. I am, by and large, pretty skilled as a snow driver.
However, some days are just motherfuckers.
Me: C'mon, baby, please, please, please, please--
Car: What is this, one of your ridiculous fanfictions? TALKING DIRTY TO ME WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.
Me: It's been half a fucking hour, there's only so long I can fucking do this--
Car: That's what your mother said last night!
Me: FUCK YOU YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF FILTHY FUCKING SHIT FUCK YOU AND FUCK THE FACTORY YOU WERE BUILT IN AND FUCK EVERY ROAD YOU'VE EVER DRIVEN ON AND EVERY TIRE YOU'VE EVER TOUCHED YOU EVIL GUS-GUZZLING MOTHERFUCKING WHORE.
Please note, while most of this dialogue between me and my car has been fabricated for obvious reasons (this just in: cars don't talk), that last thing actually came out of my mouth. At a volume decidedly higher than was acceptable. Additionally, by this point I was so angry that I had, in fact, started crying, which only exacerbated my rage, and as such only increased my volume, and as I was screaming and revving the engine uselessly and pounding on the steering wheel like a crazy person...
...a kind stranger willing to help me out knocked on my window.
NOW, LIVEJOURNAL, UPSETTINGLY ENOUGH, THIS IS NOT THE MOST EMBARRASSING THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME IN MY DRIVEWAY. That award still goes to the time my neighbor caught me outside at 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday, wearing a robe and tie-dye pants tucked into white Ugg boots, smoking a cigarette and drinking cranberry juice out of a wine glass because the dishwasher contained all my other drinkware. In an attempt to assure her that I was not so much of a lush as I seemed, I hastily said "Oh, no, it's totally okay, this was just the biggest cup I could find!" This...did not endear her to my cause.
However, despite it being only the second-most embarrassing thing to ever have occurred in my driveway, it was still HIDEOUSLY OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK MORTIFYING. By all right this guy should have taken one look at me, said "EGADS, WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT, WITH HER PUFFY FACE AND HER INAPPROPRIATE-FOR-THE-WEATHER GIANT SUNGLASSES AND HER FOULLY SHRIEKING MOUTH," and headed directly for the hills. But this stranger--who didn't give me his name, just flitted in and out of my day to assist me and was gone before I could thank him--this stranger did not do that. Instead he spent fifteen minutes of his time pushing my car out of the rut and setting me free.
SO, today's tales of my tragically ridiculous life are brought to you by the letter A, the number 2, and the concept of paying it forward. BE KIND UNTO STRANGERS, GUYS, EVEN CRAZY ONES. Because sometimes, sometimes, crazy people are just girls like me, who can't help that their car is a gas-guzzling whore.
Or, if you're not willing to do that, then at very least consider looking into upgrading your plow service.
♥
Ahahahahahaha, work, how so surreal?
Okay, so, the thing is, my job is essentially Do All Of That Shit No One Else Has Time To Do. This sounds less hectic then it actually is, until I explain that our firm has offices all over the country and our marketing department consists of three people. I am included in that count. As such, the tasks I get assigned vary wildly in tedium level and difficult, and some of them are ridiculously awesome, and some of them suck a lot, because that is the nature of having this kind of job.
TODAY, one of the things on my to-do list involved distributing some materials to like forty different attorneys, so before I left for lunch, I popped over to the mail room to procure some inter-office envelopes. I am pretty tight with most of the people who work in my office, because I have this policy about, um, general kindness, and a number of the people I work with do not have this policy, so I am pretty well-liked as a result. However, there is one woman who works in the mail room who either really, really hates me or...well, no. I'm pretty sure she just really, really hates me, and I cannot figure out why, but such is life! Generally I do not let it get me down.
However, when she is the only person in the mail room, things can get...a little odd.
Me: Hey, can I swing back behind the counter and grab--
Angry Coworker: No. Only mail room personnel can come behind the counter.
NB: this is not true; I have been behind the counter many a time! Several of those times I was allowed back there by the director of the mail room. However, I pressed on.
Me: Okay then! Sorry, I just need like forty inter-office envelopes, and I didn't want to make you get--
Angry Coworker: You need HOW many inter-office envelopes?
Me: Um. Forty? I know it's a lot, and I didn't want to be obnoxious--
Angry Coworker: Too late.
Okay. Guys, at this point, I am annoyed. However, a) lots of things annoy me and I have learned to pick my battles, and b) I spent a number of years working several jobs in the customer service industry, and have as such developed the default response of you're-pissed-off-so-smile-harder-
Me: I'm really sorry! I'd be happy to just grab them myself--
Angry Coworker: Well, why didn't you offer to do that to begin with?
Me: I...but I...that's what I...
Angry Coworker: Not that it would have mattered, since you can't go behind the desk, but you could have at least offered.
Me: ....
Angry Coworker: Whatever. It'll take about forty-five minutes, you're just going to have to wait. I'm really busy.
Please note: I can SEE THE STACK OF ENVELOPES. THEY ARE WITHIN MY REACH. And she is busy, by the way, reading an Us Weekly magazine. But I swallow my irritation because I am a professional and I do not scream at people for being irrational and I certainly do not throw myself across counters and run off with a handful of envelopes, cackling madly.
Even when I really, really want to.
Me: Okay! That's fine. I'm going to go to lunch, then.
Angry Coworker: Well, fine. Forty, you said?
Me: Yeah, if you've got them. Thanks!
Angry Coworker: Whatever.
I go to lunch. I eat a delicious sandwich and try not to think about the fact that getting envelopes is apparently a trial now. And when I get back, the envelopes are at my desk.
Correction: the envelopes are all over my desk.
I count them. She's brought two hundred.
Alright, I think to myself, alright, whatever, at least they are here. I do what I need to do with the forty envelopes I had originally sought, explaining to a friend of mine who works in the mail room what happened while I work. He laughs hysterically (Angry Coworker is like this with everyone, it's not just me, her continued employment is an ongoing mystery), and helps me return the one hundred and sixty extra envelopes to their rightful spot. When we get to the mail room--and keep in mind that my arms are full of envelopes--Angry Coworker gives me a very unimpressed look.
Angry Coworker: What, do you need more?
GUYS. YOU GUYS. HOW IS THIS MY LIFE??????
ETA: Oh, also, because I said it in the comments somewhere the other day but then, uh, failed to mention it here: if you like, y'all can feel free to follow me on Twitter. I mention this NOT to be one of those people who is all AHAHAHAHA I NEEDZ FOLLOWERS YO but because I have this tendency to...um...mention that I'm going to try to finish a fic and then I get people going HEY I AM F5ING OVER HERE and sometimes things take longer than I mean them to and, uh. I thought a twitter account might be easier? Since, you know, people update their twitter feeds anyway and, uh. *Hands*
I make no promises about the content and actually mostly I use it as yet another medium through which to flail at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angelgazing BUT I AM GOING TO USE IT TO LET YOU GUYS KNOW WHEN I POST FIC and, uh. Okay. Shutting up now?
Okay, so, the thing is, my job is essentially Do All Of That Shit No One Else Has Time To Do. This sounds less hectic then it actually is, until I explain that our firm has offices all over the country and our marketing department consists of three people. I am included in that count. As such, the tasks I get assigned vary wildly in tedium level and difficult, and some of them are ridiculously awesome, and some of them suck a lot, because that is the nature of having this kind of job.
TODAY, one of the things on my to-do list involved distributing some materials to like forty different attorneys, so before I left for lunch, I popped over to the mail room to procure some inter-office envelopes. I am pretty tight with most of the people who work in my office, because I have this policy about, um, general kindness, and a number of the people I work with do not have this policy, so I am pretty well-liked as a result. However, there is one woman who works in the mail room who either really, really hates me or...well, no. I'm pretty sure she just really, really hates me, and I cannot figure out why, but such is life! Generally I do not let it get me down.
However, when she is the only person in the mail room, things can get...a little odd.
Me: Hey, can I swing back behind the counter and grab--
Angry Coworker: No. Only mail room personnel can come behind the counter.
NB: this is not true; I have been behind the counter many a time! Several of those times I was allowed back there by the director of the mail room. However, I pressed on.
Me: Okay then! Sorry, I just need like forty inter-office envelopes, and I didn't want to make you get--
Angry Coworker: You need HOW many inter-office envelopes?
Me: Um. Forty? I know it's a lot, and I didn't want to be obnoxious--
Angry Coworker: Too late.
Okay. Guys, at this point, I am annoyed. However, a) lots of things annoy me and I have learned to pick my battles, and b) I spent a number of years working several jobs in the customer service industry, and have as such developed the default response of you're-pissed-off-so-smile-harder-
Me: I'm really sorry! I'd be happy to just grab them myself--
Angry Coworker: Well, why didn't you offer to do that to begin with?
Me: I...but I...that's what I...
Angry Coworker: Not that it would have mattered, since you can't go behind the desk, but you could have at least offered.
Me: ....
Angry Coworker: Whatever. It'll take about forty-five minutes, you're just going to have to wait. I'm really busy.
Please note: I can SEE THE STACK OF ENVELOPES. THEY ARE WITHIN MY REACH. And she is busy, by the way, reading an Us Weekly magazine. But I swallow my irritation because I am a professional and I do not scream at people for being irrational and I certainly do not throw myself across counters and run off with a handful of envelopes, cackling madly.
Even when I really, really want to.
Me: Okay! That's fine. I'm going to go to lunch, then.
Angry Coworker: Well, fine. Forty, you said?
Me: Yeah, if you've got them. Thanks!
Angry Coworker: Whatever.
I go to lunch. I eat a delicious sandwich and try not to think about the fact that getting envelopes is apparently a trial now. And when I get back, the envelopes are at my desk.
Correction: the envelopes are all over my desk.
I count them. She's brought two hundred.
Alright, I think to myself, alright, whatever, at least they are here. I do what I need to do with the forty envelopes I had originally sought, explaining to a friend of mine who works in the mail room what happened while I work. He laughs hysterically (Angry Coworker is like this with everyone, it's not just me, her continued employment is an ongoing mystery), and helps me return the one hundred and sixty extra envelopes to their rightful spot. When we get to the mail room--and keep in mind that my arms are full of envelopes--Angry Coworker gives me a very unimpressed look.
Angry Coworker: What, do you need more?
GUYS. YOU GUYS. HOW IS THIS MY LIFE??????
ETA: Oh, also, because I said it in the comments somewhere the other day but then, uh, failed to mention it here: if you like, y'all can feel free to follow me on Twitter. I mention this NOT to be one of those people who is all AHAHAHAHA I NEEDZ FOLLOWERS YO but because I have this tendency to...um...mention that I'm going to try to finish a fic and then I get people going HEY I AM F5ING OVER HERE and sometimes things take longer than I mean them to and, uh. I thought a twitter account might be easier? Since, you know, people update their twitter feeds anyway and, uh. *Hands*
I make no promises about the content and actually mostly I use it as yet another medium through which to flail at
angelgazing BUT I AM GOING TO USE IT TO LET YOU GUYS KNOW WHEN I POST FIC and, uh. Okay. Shutting up now?Ahahaha! I bought an iPhone. Now, those of you who have spoken to me on this topic know that I have long resisted doing so, largely because I think the people at AT&T are asshats. But today my Verizon phone died and the people there were BIGGER asshats, and I figured to hell with it. If I'm going to have to deal with asshats anyway, might as well do it with some Apple tech.
And oh my god, you guys, it was so worth it. This thing is UNBELIEVABLE. It knows where I am. It knows what I want. It has already put asshat in my predictive text. Woooo!
In conclusion, the RDJ tag on this post is a lie. Robert Downey Jr., this is not your fault. That tag is just my favorite.
Posted via LiveJournal.app.
(no subject)
Apr. 20th, 2010 02:24 pmOkay so:
The campus internet has decided today that my f-list is too dirty for me to view. THIS IS FRUSTRATING ON A NUMBER OF LEVELS: first, there is the fact that I was to know what is going on with y'all. And second, this means that THERE IS SOME KIND OF HOT SOMETHING GOING ON THAT I AM NOT VIEWING.
So, here's my plan--let's stick it to the campus. Even if they block this entry from me (and they might--some of my own dirtier stories are blocked on the internet here, which makes me laugh, because I WROTE THEM, GUYS, YOU CANNOT BLOCK ME FROM MY OWN BRAIN), all my comments will come through to my Gmail account.
So, here is is: THE FIVE ACTS MEME. With the added bonus of sticking it the man, Mozzie-style.
( Five Acts )
In conclusion: FIGHT THE POWER, WRITE SOME PORN :D
[ETA: Indeed, the campus internet WILL NOT allow me to see the comments of this post. I can edit the entry, but not see/reply to the comments. IT KNOWS WHERE THE PORN IS. Butthosewerepearls, by ALL MEANS do number 5 (!!!) and photoash OHMYGOD THAT IS HOT and speccygeekgrrl I am glad I am not the only one to find that kink valid and themkshrine I am so excited already to see what you do with it. And everyone who comments after this, your comments are DEEPLY APPRECIATED and BEING READ via Gmail and I WILL ANSWER YOU AFTER 5 PM WHEN I AM BACK TO INTERNET THAT DOESN'T HATE PORN. I love you guys :D]
[ETA AGAIN: WOW. It let me answer ONE COMMENT AND THEN STOPPED AGAIN WHAT THE HELL INTERNET I GIVE UP ON YOU]
[ETA A THIRD TIME: In response to the emails/comments/messages to the effect that LJ is blocking a ton of people from comments--THAT TOTALLY SUCKS. However, I am sure that is not the cause of my problem, or at least not the only cause. Why, you ask?
Well, because when *I* try to see my comments, a screen comes up that says "Web content filtered. Reason: sex." HILARIOUS AND FRUSTRATING, NO?]
The campus internet has decided today that my f-list is too dirty for me to view. THIS IS FRUSTRATING ON A NUMBER OF LEVELS: first, there is the fact that I was to know what is going on with y'all. And second, this means that THERE IS SOME KIND OF HOT SOMETHING GOING ON THAT I AM NOT VIEWING.
So, here's my plan--let's stick it to the campus. Even if they block this entry from me (and they might--some of my own dirtier stories are blocked on the internet here, which makes me laugh, because I WROTE THEM, GUYS, YOU CANNOT BLOCK ME FROM MY OWN BRAIN), all my comments will come through to my Gmail account.
So, here is is: THE FIVE ACTS MEME. With the added bonus of sticking it the man, Mozzie-style.
( Five Acts )
In conclusion: FIGHT THE POWER, WRITE SOME PORN :D
[ETA: Indeed, the campus internet WILL NOT allow me to see the comments of this post. I can edit the entry, but not see/reply to the comments. IT KNOWS WHERE THE PORN IS. But
thosewerepearls, by ALL MEANS do number 5 (!!!) and photoash OHMYGOD THAT IS HOT and speccygeekgrrl I am glad I am not the only one to find that kink valid and themkshrine I am so excited already to see what you do with it. And everyone who comments after this, your comments are DEEPLY APPRECIATED and BEING READ via Gmail and I WILL ANSWER YOU AFTER 5 PM WHEN I AM BACK TO INTERNET THAT DOESN'T HATE PORN. I love you guys :D][ETA AGAIN: WOW. It let me answer ONE COMMENT AND THEN STOPPED AGAIN WHAT THE HELL INTERNET I GIVE UP ON YOU]
[ETA A THIRD TIME: In response to the emails/comments/messages to the effect that LJ is blocking a ton of people from comments--THAT TOTALLY SUCKS. However, I am sure that is not the cause of my problem, or at least not the only cause. Why, you ask?
Well, because when *I* try to see my comments, a screen comes up that says "Web content filtered. Reason: sex." HILARIOUS AND FRUSTRATING, NO?]
What the fucking fuck, Sonoma County.
Apr. 18th, 2010 08:26 pmLook, do I honestly think anyone who reads my journal doesn't also read copperbadge? No, I don't. Sam is everywhere. But on the off-chance that you haven't seen this link he posted yet:
I guess being gay makes you less of a human fucking being. Who knew?
Here's a brief summary of what that post is going to tell you! Clay and Howard, 77 and 88 respectively, lived in Sonoma County. They'd been together for 20 years. When Howard fell down the stairs, the county separated them, putting them each in different nursing homes against their will. AND they sold their house and their belongings without permission! BECAUSE APPARENTLY CLAY AND HOWARD ARE NOT PEOPLE, JUST GAYS.
Seriously, I don't even know what to say, except: repost the shit out of this. Tell everyone you know. The above link offers a petition you can sign and a way to contact the local papers out there; do that. Show your bosses. Tweet about it. Whatever you have to do, because this? This is disgusting.
copperbadge? No, I don't. Sam is everywhere. But on the off-chance that you haven't seen this link he posted yet:I guess being gay makes you less of a human fucking being. Who knew?
Here's a brief summary of what that post is going to tell you! Clay and Howard, 77 and 88 respectively, lived in Sonoma County. They'd been together for 20 years. When Howard fell down the stairs, the county separated them, putting them each in different nursing homes against their will. AND they sold their house and their belongings without permission! BECAUSE APPARENTLY CLAY AND HOWARD ARE NOT PEOPLE, JUST GAYS.
Seriously, I don't even know what to say, except: repost the shit out of this. Tell everyone you know. The above link offers a petition you can sign and a way to contact the local papers out there; do that. Show your bosses. Tweet about it. Whatever you have to do, because this? This is disgusting.
So!
I sat down yesterday to finish Girl!Neal and, um. I got to like...the very very last section and with a few paragraphs to go by body was like, KIDNEY ATTACK! Go directly to bed, do not collect $200, and don't move for 22 hours. My conclusion? My kidneys are opposed to fanfiction. SILLY KIDNEYS.
Seriously, I am a college student. WTF is up with this? Couldn't they have waited and started this little coup when I was old enough for it to be less random?
NONETHELESS, I am better now, and I am pounding this shit out and then editing it (unless anyone is around, like, RIGHT NOW to beta). It will be up TONIGHT, come hell or high water. Until then, here is a poem that I am kind of eh about!
( Poem! )
Also? While I was immobile I watched Big Eden, which I would not have been able to do if the ever-awesomeelrhiarhodan had not sent me the DVD. THANK YOU, elrhiarhodan, YOU MADE MY KIDNEY!FAIL BEARABLE. While the movie itself is not the greatest, EVERYONE SHOULD WATCH IT, because there is some very ripped Tim Dekay in his underwear. And there is some Tim Dekay doing some other stuff that made my heart skip a beat, and mmmmmmmmm. Tim Dekay, you are lovely.
Then, when I was done with Big Eden, I rewatched episodes of WC and consoled myself with Peter's deliciousness and the chiseled beauty of Matt Bomer's features. The moral of this story? Tim and Matt can ease even the pain of your body staging a mutiny. I've proven it. It's science.
THEN I REREAD THIS AWESOME STORYthosewerepearls WROTE FOR ME. It's called Brokedown Palace (which by the way is the name of MY FAVORITE GRATEFUL DEAD SONG, HOW DID SHE KNOW?!), and it's about Neal and Peter in the immediate aftermath of Kate's death. Oh, and it is INCREDIBLE. Everything about this piece rings true, from the dialogue to the descriptions to the fucking sentence structure. I won't go into more detail because I don't want to spoil anything, but consider this my official recommendation--and, in fact, entreaty--that you go and read it. Because it awesome.
Then I read a bunch of other fanfiction that was incredible! I'm going to do a rec post later because I want to FINISH THIS DAMN STORY NOW, but I did learn something today: fandom makes my life better. I knew that and everything, but Jesus Christ, you guys, I don't know what I would have done with myself while I was all pathetic and pained. YOU ALL WIN THE INTERNET.
Okay! I depart to finish the porn! WATCH THIS SPACE, YO. IT WILL ARRIVE SOON.
I sat down yesterday to finish Girl!Neal and, um. I got to like...the very very last section and with a few paragraphs to go by body was like, KIDNEY ATTACK! Go directly to bed, do not collect $200, and don't move for 22 hours. My conclusion? My kidneys are opposed to fanfiction. SILLY KIDNEYS.
Seriously, I am a college student. WTF is up with this? Couldn't they have waited and started this little coup when I was old enough for it to be less random?
NONETHELESS, I am better now, and I am pounding this shit out and then editing it (unless anyone is around, like, RIGHT NOW to beta). It will be up TONIGHT, come hell or high water. Until then, here is a poem that I am kind of eh about!
( Poem! )
Also? While I was immobile I watched Big Eden, which I would not have been able to do if the ever-awesome
elrhiarhodan had not sent me the DVD. THANK YOU, elrhiarhodan, YOU MADE MY KIDNEY!FAIL BEARABLE. While the movie itself is not the greatest, EVERYONE SHOULD WATCH IT, because there is some very ripped Tim Dekay in his underwear. And there is some Tim Dekay doing some other stuff that made my heart skip a beat, and mmmmmmmmm. Tim Dekay, you are lovely. Then, when I was done with Big Eden, I rewatched episodes of WC and consoled myself with Peter's deliciousness and the chiseled beauty of Matt Bomer's features. The moral of this story? Tim and Matt can ease even the pain of your body staging a mutiny. I've proven it. It's science.
THEN I REREAD THIS AWESOME STORY
thosewerepearls WROTE FOR ME. It's called Brokedown Palace (which by the way is the name of MY FAVORITE GRATEFUL DEAD SONG, HOW DID SHE KNOW?!), and it's about Neal and Peter in the immediate aftermath of Kate's death. Oh, and it is INCREDIBLE. Everything about this piece rings true, from the dialogue to the descriptions to the fucking sentence structure. I won't go into more detail because I don't want to spoil anything, but consider this my official recommendation--and, in fact, entreaty--that you go and read it. Because it awesome.Then I read a bunch of other fanfiction that was incredible! I'm going to do a rec post later because I want to FINISH THIS DAMN STORY NOW, but I did learn something today: fandom makes my life better. I knew that and everything, but Jesus Christ, you guys, I don't know what I would have done with myself while I was all pathetic and pained. YOU ALL WIN THE INTERNET.
Okay! I depart to finish the porn! WATCH THIS SPACE, YO. IT WILL ARRIVE SOON.
Let me explain.
No, there is too much. Let me sum up:
I KNOW I HAVE BEEN TOTALLY MIA. This is because my RL sort of exploded into Passover/new job/school deadlines/family whatsits/my brother coming to visit unexpectedly, AND I actually bothered to look at a calendar and realized OMGWTFBQQ ALL MY HP FEST FICS ARE DUE IN LIKE A WEEK. Except for the one that's due in like two weeks but has turned out to be RIDICULOUSLY long and I suddenly have no time and I HAVE NOT ABANDONED THIS SHIP I JUST GOT BUSY. Sometimes this happens, it is a fact of my existence. Nothing ever happens in manageable chunks it's ALWAYS ALL AT ONCE.
But I am going to be around again in like a day and I will finish girl!Neal and library!sex and all these other WC fics and post them and TO APOLOGIZE FOR ALL OF THIS, HERE'S 500 WORDS OF SAD MOZZ FIC THAT I WROTE FORhoosierbitch ONE TIME AND NEVER POSTED.
*Grovels*
Title Beautiful Things in Cages
Rating: PG
Pairing: Neal/Mozz (kind of)
Spoilers: Uh, no. Set immediately prior to the pilot.
Summary: Mozz has never been that kind of guy.
( Beautiful Things in Cages )
No, there is too much. Let me sum up:
I KNOW I HAVE BEEN TOTALLY MIA. This is because my RL sort of exploded into Passover/new job/school deadlines/family whatsits/my brother coming to visit unexpectedly, AND I actually bothered to look at a calendar and realized OMGWTFBQQ ALL MY HP FEST FICS ARE DUE IN LIKE A WEEK. Except for the one that's due in like two weeks but has turned out to be RIDICULOUSLY long and I suddenly have no time and I HAVE NOT ABANDONED THIS SHIP I JUST GOT BUSY. Sometimes this happens, it is a fact of my existence. Nothing ever happens in manageable chunks it's ALWAYS ALL AT ONCE.
But I am going to be around again in like a day and I will finish girl!Neal and library!sex and all these other WC fics and post them and TO APOLOGIZE FOR ALL OF THIS, HERE'S 500 WORDS OF SAD MOZZ FIC THAT I WROTE FOR
hoosierbitch ONE TIME AND NEVER POSTED. *Grovels*
Title Beautiful Things in Cages
Rating: PG
Pairing: Neal/Mozz (kind of)
Spoilers: Uh, no. Set immediately prior to the pilot.
Summary: Mozz has never been that kind of guy.
( Beautiful Things in Cages )
(no subject)
Mar. 23rd, 2010 03:08 pmGah, ok.
SORRY about the rather desperate plea for assurance that was my last post; I've locked it down entirely, because I'm a little embarrassed at myself. That said? THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH for your comments, I can't explain how much that show of support helped. You're all incredible.
For those who didn't see the post, I broke up with my SO last night. I am fine and I emphatically do not want to talk about it, but I am mentioning it to warn you: if for the next few days, my posts are erratic and/or extremely unusual, THAT IS WHY. (The fanmix will be both erratic and unusual, and also WAY TOO LONG FOR A FANMIX, but that cannot be helped.)
If anyone has a prompt for fic they'd like to read, comment and let me know? I've got a number of things on the burner but I'm the mood to do some random drabbling/comment!fic. Because writing is the cure to all of life's ills, and girl!Neal is eating my brain, and there's only so much Gatsby/Neal crossover a person can spit out in a day. Yes.
SORRY about the rather desperate plea for assurance that was my last post; I've locked it down entirely, because I'm a little embarrassed at myself. That said? THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH for your comments, I can't explain how much that show of support helped. You're all incredible.
For those who didn't see the post, I broke up with my SO last night. I am fine and I emphatically do not want to talk about it, but I am mentioning it to warn you: if for the next few days, my posts are erratic and/or extremely unusual, THAT IS WHY. (The fanmix will be both erratic and unusual, and also WAY TOO LONG FOR A FANMIX, but that cannot be helped.)
If anyone has a prompt for fic they'd like to read, comment and let me know? I've got a number of things on the burner but I'm the mood to do some random drabbling/comment!fic. Because writing is the cure to all of life's ills, and girl!Neal is eating my brain, and there's only so much Gatsby/Neal crossover a person can spit out in a day. Yes.
