Two days ago we went out for dinner to my favorite little Chinese place, and my cookie said "You will go on a journey and come into a fortune." At the time, I thought it was cute and self-fulfilling. After all, I went on a journey to the Chinese place and I did get a fortune-- in my cookie. *shrug*
Pinky has to go in for jury duty tomorrow. I know, how scary is it that someone else's fate might actually lie in her hands... yikes.
I had jury duty last year, so I'm planning to get up with her, ride the MAX into town, and walk her to the courthouse. Then I'll probably spend some time at the Portland branch of the library. Great place. Big staircases, art, a Starbucks... Yeah, that's how you know you're in Portland, there's a Starbucks inside the library and a lot of skatepunks outside.
At least it's the wrong time of year for voter initiatives. Oregon is... progressive? We're the first and only state to conduct elections entirely through the mail, which does give you more time to sit down with the guide to all the various initiatives, but still. In 2000, there were twenty-six measures on the ballot, I think. I'm all for the voice of the common man, that's a lot of pro-and-con arguments to wade through.
Oh, listen to me, I'm politically apathetic Gen-X Barbie. "Democracy is hard!"
Still. I'd much rather walk a gauntlet of surly-looking skatepunks than the overly earnest clipboard Gestapo haranguing me to sign something for them. "It'll just take a minute of your time!" Oh, really, it'll just take a minute for you to explain the full complexity of this bill you're proposing, that might possibly become a law? Or it'll just take a minute for you to snap out a few buzzwords-- school! environment! first amendment! and for me to respond like a salivating doggie? Oh, call me overly cynical, but I never feel like I'm getting all sides of the issue from anyone standing behind a clipboard.
Wow, that was a tangent.
Anyway. Maybe I'll spend some time in the little park in front of the courthouse, or ride the MAX down to Pioneer Courthouse Square and people-watch. I could pack my sketchbook in my backpack... it's been a long time since I did something like that. The weather should be nice. Today it was up to 85, but they say it should be cooler tomorrow.
Goin' on a trip. Maybe I'll come into a fortune.
Two new Stargate covers for stories by Anna. If you haven't read Anna's SG-1 stuff yet-- why? What? Where have you been? I had to pack up everything I owned and I made time, so there. *grins* Start at "Lost in Translation" and read upwards.
Also. HELP! I need to know where I can download a convenient, easy ftp shareware program that'll work with Windows 95. Not CuteFTP or EliteFTP, I've tried those. Something SIMPLE. Something that doesn't overwrite files for no apparent reason except to make me come up with ever more creative ways to curse out my computer.
See, my problem is that internettrash won't let me use its handy web interface to upload to subfolders. And that's fine when I'm just updating my weblog or whatever, but it means I have to use FTP to update Jessica's site and Brighid's site and Betty's site and Kalena's site. And American Pie. And what I've got just ISN'T DOING IT FOR ME.
Help me, Collective, you're my only hope.
Announcement: there's a Due South fanfiction renaissance going on. I am filled with joy. I love everyone. Consider yourself hugged.
As usual when I'm speechless with joy over 'fic I make covers. Today I added two new Due South covers to the sidebar-- for Resonant's "Broadway Hotel" & Speranza's "Enduring Distance." I love these ladies, their characterization, their plot, their style.
They're fab. You knew this already.
Are there any good het pairings out there that read like slash?
Okay, the question itself reveals my bias as a slash snob. It probably comes from starting out mainly in buddy fandoms, where, hey, I'll go right ahead and say it: the slash is better.
But are there any het couples with slashy vibes that anyone can recommend?
Wait, let me define my terms. Here's what I mean by "reads like slash."
The sex is hot but not perfect every time, nor is it a solution to the problems of the world. Nor does it proceed smoothly from first base to home plate.
Nobody gets turned into a fembot. I'd want this to stay true in a het pairing as much as I want it to be true of the slash I read (see my rant on the front page about Blair's missing dick.)
The guy in the pairing doesn't become My Perfect Dream Date or else a bad approximation of broody Mr. Rochester who must be saved from himself by the power of Her Love.
There might occasionally be plot-heavy stories, stuff with some meat besides the relationship. Angst and unhappy endings. I don't want a Harlequin here.
I want what I want from slash. I don't want hearts and flowers and forever. I want it to be about the pain and the fear and the inevitable loss. I want it to be about triumph and struggle. I want it to be just about the sex sometimes. I want it to be just about the kink sometimes.
And yes, I know that for all of that in a het package I need look no farther than a lot of my favorite BTVS slash authors-- the lines are very thinly drawn and they meander all over the place in Buffy fandom, which I love-- but I think I'm looking for something a little more... normal. By which I mean less vampires and more adults. *shrug*
I haven't even begun to look, but are Tom and B'Elanna like that, ever? Kim and Seven? Michael and Nikita? Umm... Jack and Sam? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Suggestions?
Sometimes being an adult is exactly what you imagined it would be when you were five: staying up late and eating Lucky Charms for dinner.
-- Ryan Rollinson
Re: moving. Pinky said yesterday "Kind of an anti-climax, huh?" She's right. Oohing and aaahing is over, replaced by the realization that not only have you not known what time it is for several days straight, you don't even know where you packed your alarm clock. The shower has awful water pressure and the slowest drain in the hemisphere. Yes, it's time to discover everything "eh" about the house.
I'm adding a ton of new people to the sidebar tonight, some new bloggers, some not: Brighid, Dale, dine, Elizabeth, Gemma, grit kitty, Olwen, Valeria, & Viedma. So many cool people in the world... :)
"Ah, Mike, I see you've decided to go psycho today. Godspeed."
-- Dr. Forrester, MST3K
We're in. I'm back.
Grandpa V. has arrived; he's going to be staying with us while my mother's brother from California goes on a three-week trip with his girlfriend. Grandpa V. is one of the main reasons we bought this particular house, as it has a downstairs bedroom w/ its own full bathroom, and he'll probably be staying with us off and on for quite some time.
So many people to write LoCs to. Resonant, Pares, Speranza (twice) Viridian5 (a couple of times) Anna (to the power of six) and Rheanna (her latest is up on fanfiction.net.)
How could I have not realized before that I'm going to be sharing a wall with Pinky now? Before, she was across and down the hall. Now, there she is on the other side of a very thin wall. She listens to music to sleep. I must have absolute silence. This is going to require negotiation, I can see that.
Must update page soon. Brighid has a new story, Jessica Harris has new stuff, & I haven't even added "Invariant Factors" to my TS story page yet.
Must clean downstairs (kitchen, living room) as we are throwing Aunt Jane's wedding shower here on Saturday. Yes, we are insane. Got a good start on it last night with Mom, but it's like "hurry up and wait" around here a lot of the time.
Own room is a mess. Can't seem to find where I packed my socks. I have some in a suitcase, but where are the rest? Managed to get computer set up, but can't find where I packed all the computer disks, which have copies of things like my web page, stories in progress, et cetera. Can't find big box of all the shoes I own, which means I'm stuck with sneakers for the moment.
Watched a little TV last night to chill out before bed. (Didn't work, as I couldn't sleep, got online, and posted several messages to a certain list that probably, upon re-reading, won't be more coherent than "Tyr Anasazi is a hottie!" and "Darien Fawkes is a hottie!")
(Well, they are.)
Note to self. You need a CD organizer. And a new desk. This one sucks. Go shopping. Inform people of your address change. Eat some fruit. Oh, God. Do you want to know what I had for dinner last night, people? A cold piece of fried chicken and an untoasted Pop-Tart. Well, and then we went out for Chinese later, but my sleep schedule is so completely fucked up because I stayed up till five in the morning two days before we moved, and then stayed up all night the morning before we actually moved, so it kind of felt like dinner at the time. But still. That's really pathetic.
Pinky's poor cat is slinking around like it's the end of the world. That cat has actually lived at our house more continuously than she has, if you count the year or so Pinky lived with Evil Boyfriend Freddie. One of my mother's friends, M. who helped us move, got kind of a bonus when we were sorting through the stuff-to-donate-to-Goodwill because of that. "Ugh! Yuck! No, I don't want that gorgeous silver bracelet-- Freddie gave it to me! You go ahead and take it, M.!" I can't decide if that's mature or immature.
Heh. I have this big wall scroll of Sailor Jupiter that I got at a con in Texas years ago, and since it was too long to fit in a box I was just carrying it with me. Before the movers arrived I noticed a nail sticking out of a small angled wall just wide enough for the wall scroll, so I hung it up and it fit perfectly. Of course later one of the movers (probably about my age) had to do the Sad Otaku Come-On. "So... uh... you... um... you like anime? Have you seen Ghost in the Shell?"
I haven't actually. Yes, I know it's a classic. I'm not making fun, really, it's nice to be appreciated, especially by a guy who can lift as much as that. Heh.
Cannot think of profound conclusion. *shrug*
Oh, yeah, remember those ugly shoes I couldn't bring myself to throw away? Managed to get rid of them without doing the deed myself.
Mom: "You don't want these do you?"
Me: (can't believe my luck) "No!"
(Mom throws them away. I heave a sigh of relief and move to new house unburdened by ugly worn-out shoes.)
Have managed to avoid packing computer so far. Will probably have to do that tomorrow, as we get the keys to the new house on Sunday. You know, If I hadn't been so artistic in the past, packing would be easier. Big sketchbooks, big folders of sketches, fragile sculptures... Markers everywhere. I'm just throwing them away in batches at this point. But it does make me realize just how much of my creativity these days is digital-- maybe 90%. It's all in the gray box...
I threw away a plastic whistle and some Presidents of the USA flashcards. I have a bag of books I'm going to donate to the library. Am considering throwing away the oldest, rattiest, haven't-worn-them-in-years pair of ugly-to-begin-with shoes you've ever seen. Have not been able to bring myself to do it yet.
Things that will change when we move: no more skylight in the bathroom. I just realized this. "Oh yeah, that's why it looks so small and dark in the new bathroom. No skylight." Duh. No more bunnies. No more deer in the yard every few days. Will actually have neighbors, lots of families, neighborhood kids, instead of tree farms and daffodil farms and the weird organic hippie family across the road.
We'll have to buy Halloween candy this year.
Will actually be within five minutes of a grocery store, video store, dry cleaners, etc., instead of forty minutes away. Won't get iced in for five days this winter without electricity. Won't have to build a fire and pin up quilts over the doorways into the living room and huddle in there like it's a cave. Won't have to spend the entire day reading books, won't have to choose between death from boredom and squinting at tiny print by the light of an oil lamp until Mom makes me stop. A few years ago I got through four or five of the... ergh... brain freeze... that guy named Rand... search Google... ah. Wheel of Time books. Right. In a week or so. And I do read fast, but yes, that is a ridiculous amount of pages in a very short amount of time. Hmm. I'm looking on this page and it says that Lan and Nynaeve actually get together in one of the later books. Good for them, that makes me happy. I liked Lan.
News flash: The subdivision we're moving into is a very new neighborhood with houses still being built, which Pinky just realized means that, for the foreseeable future, there will be hot shirtless guys doing construction on our block. Every single day. Maybe I'll start getting up in the morning and going for walks. Because I'm so concerned about my health, you know.
Due to me packing all day and staying up all night on the computer, the Andromeda WIP is up to 122k. Why do I write? I thought it was to feel productive, but now I'm leaning now towards it being cheaper than therapy.
Part One: angst, dinner, philosophical arguments, sex, more arguing, a tiny bit of smarm, some repairing things, angst, angst, and more sex.
Part Two: repairing things, humanitarian concerns, more smarm, more fixing things, reminiscing, more sex, arguing.
Part Three: a startling development, fighting, angst, a huge expositional info-dump that pretty much solves the problem in ten seconds, which I know sucks but I can't think of any other way to introduce the info into the story at the moment, and besides, Dylan needs to feel useful. Then kinky sex, and a little schmoopy epilogue.
(TV's Frank: What do you think sirs?)
My experiences over the past few days (experiences that will probably continue on for the rest of this week) have totally ruined, for me, a certain cherished concept in Sentinel fanfiction: the idea that Blair, once ensconced in Jim's spare room, doesn't move out ever because he's totally in love with Jim. You know, the whole "Blair goes apartment shopping but rejects everyplace because there's no hot and cold running Jim" subgenre.
New houses are great, being closer to every concievable convenience is great. But moving? Moving is hell. Trust me, you don't need unrequited love to keep you nailed to the floor. Blair's a busy guy, and not really the type to feel overly guilty about intruding on Jim's life. So he only has one little room, but I only have one little room, and I just know Mr. World Traveler Sandburg has more fragile/precious/unwieldy artifacts and mementos than I do. He would never ever move if he didn't have to. After this experience, I probably won't either. ^_^
Nothing to say, really. Packing. Busy. Thrilled that LaT is into Andromeda. I missed the pilot two-parter, and then I kept catching that one episode with the space station full of killer pre-teens over and over again. Which didn't really impress me, but lately I've seen a few episodes that did draw me in, like "Harper 2.0" and the season finale. Okay, so it's a little cheesy, but the ensemble is great. (LaT goes into a lot more detail, so this is just a "me too," really--) Beka is confident, funny, sexy and an ass-kicker. Tyr is a yummy growly mix of classical intelligence and primal warrior, and Harper I just want to cuddle. His actor kind of reminds me Garett Maggart (Blair Sandburg on The Sentinel) in that he's not afraid to go all the way with an emotion, even if that emotion is panic or terror or something not stereotypically action-hero-y.
So I'm working on this Harper/Tyr story that takes place after the season finale... they've escaped from the Magog and they're trying to rebuild.
"Harper, you need to rest."
"What the--" Harper jumped, almost fumbling the microspanner. He managed to clutch it tightly in his fist at the last minute, keeping the small, specialized tool from falling into Rommie's android torso and getting lost in her mechanical innards. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"I'm a hologram," said Rommie, glimmering sharply. "I don't sneak." The ship's holographic avatar gazed over the table where her damaged android body rested, straight into Harper's eyes. "You need at least eight hours' sleep before your shift in the command center. Standard regulations."
Harper winced. "Yeah, well. It's what, sixteen hundred hours? I have twelve hours till my watch. More than enough time."
"You haven't eaten in six hours. You need protein. And you're probably dehydrated."
"Hey, back off, okay?" Harper pointed at her with his good hand, the one holding the microspanner, which had the happy side effect of making the holographic Rommie blur and fuzz entertainingly. "The day I can't fix a gutted android one-handed is the day I'll pack it in." He gestured for emphasis, and the spanner slipped out of his hand and skittered under the table. "Shit."
"So you'll be packing it in now?"
Harper stuck his tongue in his cheek and bit down. Seemingly taking his silence as assent, Rommie smirked and blinked out.
Pushing away from the table, Harper sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His arm was starting to hurt again, up by the shoulder where it had been fractured... and he'd done some good work today. Might as well call it a night.
Taking a gray tarp from a drawer, he pulled it up to Rommie's neck, tucking it in around her shoulders with his good hand. It was a technical precaution, just something to keep dust from getting into the body cavity, but it made him feel kind of strange at the same time. Like, protective. Paternal maybe. Leaning over the damaged android, he smoothed Rommie's mussed bangs back, off her still, peaceful face, and left the lab, turning the lights off behind him as he left. Usually he wouldn't bother, but with Andromeda so badly damaged and running at a miniscule percentage of her usual efficiency, every milliwatt helped.
He didn't go back to his quarters right away, though. Instead, he lit a portable handlight, strapped it to his right wrist, and made his way slowly through Andromeda's dim corridors towards the hydroponics bay.
"Hey, Trance," he said softly, stepping over the threshold and into the dark, cavernous space. "It's me, Harper." There was no response, but he hadn't quite expected one. What was left of Trance after the Magog attack hadn't responded to anything in over a week. But Harper was still holding out hope. They still didn't know quite what she'd done, how she'd gotten the Andromeda out of the Magog's clutches. But somehow, she'd saved them all. And if one miracle could happen, why not two?
He stepped closer to the little nest he'd put together for the cocoon, or the egg, or whatever it was that Trance had sealed herself inside. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to a seated position and leaned his head against it, pressing his ear to the bumpy purple shell. Sometimes Harper could hear something liquid sloshing around inside, and sometimes, like tonight, he could hear a heartbeat. He turned his head a little, resting his forehead and nose against the semi-translucent surface.
"How ya doin' in there?" he asked quietly. The others had wanted to keep Trance's cocoon in the medlab for observation, but Harper had suggested the hydroponics bay instead. It had escaped the attack mostly undamaged, and if Trance was going to come out, maybe it would help if her egg were in a place that she liked. "Feelin' better?" he asked quietly, and waited, eyebrows raised, for a while.
"Well, just thought I'd ask... We're okay. Most of us. Tyr's practically good as new already... guy's a fast healer. Beka's hands are gonna be fine... she might have to wear that brace on her knee for a while, though. She just won't stay off it, you know? With Dylan laid up and all, there's just so much to do around here... Dylan's getting better, though," Harper hastened to say. "You know, he moved outta the med lab today, back into his quarters. Maybe when he's feeling better he'll come by and see you. Or maybe you could come outta there and we could go see him together, huh?"
The hydroponics bay was quiet and still, except for the quiet, intermittent sound of water dripping somewhere, echoing in the large open space. Harper sighed again, his eyes drifting closed. He was just too damn tired to go track it down. Maybe Rommie had been right to chase him out of his workshop.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, finally. "I wasn't... I didn't... I did everything I could, I just..." But really, there was nothing he could say, no excuses he could make. "Damn, Trance, I wish you'd come out of there already. Come on... come on, okay? I miss you."
This is the mix of MP3s that I've been listening to lately:
Total Eclipse of the Heart -- Nikki French
Play Dead -- Bjork
Only Happy When It Rains -- Garbage
Northern Star -- Hole
One Dream -- October Project
One Tin Soldier -- Joan Baez
Always On My Mind -- Pet Shop Boys
Amy Hit The Atmosphere -- Counting Crows
Bury My Lovely -- October Project
Lorca's Novena -- The Pogues
No Easy Way Down -- Merry Citoli
Although I usually end up hitting one of the slower songs like "One Tin Soldier" and skipping back to "Total Eclipse of the Heart." What can I say? It's the cheesy eighties dance mix, but it's the music of my childhood, like Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun."
Once upon a time I was falling in love
Now I'm only falling apart
Nothin' I can do
Total eclipse of the heart
Cranking this song up really loud, Singing along all eighties diva style-- it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn't make so much fun of n*sync.
(Okay, so this is a lame entry, but trust me, you don't want me to start talking about real estate. Oh, and I started writing Andromeda slash the other day. Harper/Tyr. The fandom slut strikes again.)
Oh, yeah, and you know how a while back I was talking about really, really resisting the urge to put together an Alex/Kyle archive? Well, now I'm really, really resisting the urge to put together a Harley/Ivy archive. I have a snappy name for it and everything. *sigh*
I refuse to put up an archive for a pairing with, so far, one story. Te suggested that after I move, I start a mailing list... that's a good idea. Maybe I will. For now, I'm pimping revolution-f, which is a multifandom list for comics f/f slash. The archive for the list is here, and right now it's mostly Marvel, heavy on the X-femmes, but hey, there's room to grow. Let's all join and write me some Harley/Ivy stories! *grins* Because I need another site to update.... ^_^
Very weird, very cinematic dream now that I just woke up from (well, about an hour and a half ago, anyway.) My family and I were out in the country, being caretakers or housesitters for a playwright who was out of the country. Except it wasn't my specific family, it was just a generic family, like actors in a play. The house is gorgeous, big and white and open. I can still see it. You walk in the front door onto this landing, no railings, and there's a staircase (also no railings) that leads down into the main part of the house, which, architecturally, is basically a huge, open box with huge bare windows on two sides of the box. The corner of the house that's made up of the walls with windows points into a garden, terraced and sloping downhill, so when you're standing on the landing, you can look down through the house, through the windows, downhill into the gardens and off into the distance.
Nighttime. I'm in a hide-a-bed, a couch that folds out to a bed, with a boy about my age. He has short dark hair and mournful eyes. I get the feeling we're sort of in a relationship. Since we're in the bed together, he wants to have sex. I'm willing to make out, but not to go all the way. He holds up a strip of condoms he brought especially for us, and I think sarcastically "Yeah, such a big special gesture." So we start fooling around. I end up on top of him, grinding my pelvis onto his, and he comes with a shout. I feel a little smug since we didn't even get to the part where he'd want actual sex and I'd have to tell him no. Then we both freak out because we're still in the playwright's house and so are my parents, somewhere, and they might have heard us, and we'll be in trouble.
Panicked, we straighten the sheets and roll away from each other, to opposite sides of the hide-a-bed. We move into casual poses, and in the dream, that will be enough to fool my parents, because any sleeping in a hide-a-bed is just for necessity and obviously innocent. Although I'm a little worried that we're both lying on our backs, sort of sitting up against the back of the couch, because that doesn't look natural. "Roll over!" I hiss.
The dream disjoints. I'm still in the bed, and the boy might even still be there, but suddenly Pinky's walking by and she spills something on the shag-like carpet down by the end of the bed. I crawl over, lying on my stomach, and watch as she scrubs it up with a paper towel. The effect here is weird. You know how, if you scrub at carpet and press too hard with a cheap paper towel, it will rip up and adhere back onto itself, leaving you with these little rolled-up lines of fiber? That's what happens to Pinky, except they start small and then start growing. And moving. The milk and the paper have become alive, a lot of little white worms growing out of the carpet.
Pinky can't get the worms out no matter how much she scrubs; they just keep growing. It freaks her out. She thinks someone's playing a gross practical joke on us. I suggest getting boiling water and pouring it on the spot, and she agrees that it's a good idea. From downstairs, I watch her walk up the stairs to the landing where the kitchen apparently is (later in the dream there are three staircases and three landings). I can't see her up in the kitchen, but I hear her shout back to me that there's something wrong with the water-- it's also gross and moldy and has things growing in it.
Later. I'm out in the playwright's garden doing something, talking to someone. The gardener maybe? Vague here, but it seems that everything outside that's natural is mutating, perverting into gross things like the worms in the carpet. Everything that's manmade is just... disappearing. The effect is creeping towards the house, slowly but surely.
Back in the house. I'm gathered with the other people (not my family any more; more like the usual misfit cast of characters in a horror movie) at the top of the original landing. We're looking out the window at a structure that we can see, on the roof of a lower level of the house. Again, kind of weird to describe; a modern sort of sculpture, made of pipes and big, flat metal disks, like patio furniture table-tops. They have shallow rims around them, and rainwater has collected in them, so maybe it's some kind of big fancy birdbath or lilypond. The whole thing is stained light rust-green like the Statue of Liberty.
We are huddled at the top of the landing because the blight has just about reached the house. We haven't seen anything of the house disappear yet, and someone speaks up brightly that maybe the house is immune. No one says why, but we think it may be due to some special power of the missing playwright.
Then, outside, one of the disks in the lilypond thing begins to rattle. It shakes. Water slops over the side. And then it disappears. Panic.
More vagueness. I'm making rounds to make sure that people are okay? There's a classroom of children with Ralph Wiggum from The Simpsons in it. The blight has gotten in. It's taken over some of the children? End vague interlude.
I'm downstairs in the house again, looking through one of the big glass-panel doors. "Come here," I say to one of the men in the house with me. "Didn't you tell me that Julia was dead?" Something like that, I can't remember the exact name. "Yeah," he answers me, "I saw her die."
"Then who's that!?"
I point at a woman, crawling along the edge of the garden towards the house. She looks kind of like Karen from Will and Grace, and like Karen, I think she may be the rich wife of the playwright to whom this house belongs. She has an awkward stiff-armed crawl, like she's not used to being in a human body, and the expression on her face is weird. It's not her, I tell the others. The blight killed her and now it has taken her over.
Disjoint again. Now there's two or three women outside. One is younger, smaller. She's Hispanic-looking, dark hair and dark eyes. They all seem to be women that the playwright has been married to. They have all been possessed. They shout Matrix-style threats at us-- "You humans are the infestation! You're going to be destroyed!" Some of the men in the house shoot at them with guns, but it doesn't affect them. Outside things are steadily morphing and disappearing. When the women come too close to the house, we press a taser against the glass and shock them.
Now there's a boy outside, blond and athletic-looking, and Pinky opens a smaller window to talk to him. I stand close by because I don't think that's safe; he could reach in and grab her. I don't remember what he says, but it's something bad, because it makes my mind up about what I have to do.
I go back to the big glass patio doors and slide one of them open. Everyone else in the house gets quiet and backs up to the edges of the room. The dark-haired, youngest wife comes in. She's smaller now, like a child. I walk up close behind her, put my left arm around her, my left hand holding her right shoulder. My right hand goes around her jaw and I start twisting, trying to snap her neck like the vampires do on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
She doesn't struggle, but it's harder than I thought. I pull her head and body in two different directions, keep pulling, and finally, relieved, I hear/feel a big, grinding 'pop.' (Note to my dream special effects team: neck snapping should sound more like snapping, and less like a joint coming out of the socket.)
I let her fall to the ground. The other people in the house stare at me in shock and horror. I feel very calm inside, and stare back at them impassively. Maybe I say something, I don't know, but when I walk away, going up one of the sets of stairs, it's clear I expect them to follow me. And if they do, we're going to fight and do whatever it takes to live.
One of the other people in the house is Ryan Stiles of Whose Line Is It Anyway (or Lewis from the Drew Carey show) and he's the first to step forward. "I'm going to follow her," Ryan declares loudly, and then he ruins the dramatic moment by adding "even if it's to Neck-Snapping-Ville!"
He follows me. End of dream.
I really only mention it because it's the second dream this week where I've been forced by circumstances to kill someone. Last time was much more vague, but I remember a dangerous guy, and I was trying to wrestle agun away from him; a big Rambo-type gun, the kind with the bullets hanging off it, lined up in chains. He wouldn't give it up and I had to shoot him in the chest, several times. I remember being vaguely surprised by my good marksmanship, even at such a close distance.
I wonder if it has something to do with the fact that I'm moving. Not that moving has been really traumatic so far, nor do I really expect it to be, but it is the biggest thing going on right now.
Or maybe my brain just has to cook up all this intense stuff to compete with all the uberdramatic season finales on TV. *grins*
1) Once again (in my previous entry) I've apparently misattributed something someone said. Thought it was Maygra, apparently it's not. Let's just be very clear-- I'm a ditz. It's happened before, it will probably happen again. ^_^ Maybe in the future, instead of grasping at a name, I'll just call everyone that I quote "A senior White House official." Yeah, that'll work.
2) New art in the sidebar! Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy photomanipulations. I love these girls.
3) Recs! What blows me away about these strange pop-culture flotsam combos (besides the fact that they're all stunningly smart and side-splittingly funny) is the very, very varied collection of ingredients that have gone into them. Mainstream TV (Buffy, X-Files), animation (Futurama), cult stuff (MST3:K, Iron Chef) literature (Fight Club, Bridget Jones) and even avant-garde Canadian short film. Check it out.
* Glee Club by Debchan. Futurama does Fight Club.
* Spike Jones' Diary by Jonquil. Spike keeps a Bridget Jones style diary. "Time in sunlight: 8 hours (lovely). Arse-kickings by Slayer: 1 (horrible) Rings of Amara: 1, then 0 (unacceptable)." This rec was swiped from a senior White House official.
* Battle: Rat by the Spike. Krycek meets Iron Chef.
* TV's Frank's Cock by Valeria. MST3K and a Due South six-degrees-of-separation sorta connection-- oh hell. Just read.
Weird, weird, weird, brilliant stuff. Who else is doing this kind of thing? Has anyone else named this kind of thing? I mean, besides Battle:Rat, they're not even crossovers. Amalgams, maybe?
Fanfic always surprises me. I like to write, and to participate in fandom as a hobby, but I also like fanfic as an art form in itself, and this is why.