"You can't categorize me. Go on, try, it won't work. There are no words in this language to describe me."
"...Damn. You're right."

"...And I don't think the cops can handle that much truth..." Gad, I love Lex Luthor. Him and his silly liscence plates and his smug little expressions, yesss. Bwa-ha!
Further Smallville speculations and notes: That girl who plays Lana is actually a really good actress. No, really. I mean, yes, she does come off as a bit...ineffectual, but you have to admit that she plays the part really well. I dunno...I actually like the character, too, which is odd for me; I have this horrible bias against love interests. And as for the plucky sidekick heroine, Chloe...I'm figuring she's gonna die, and that's what'll lead Clark to becoming a dorky reporter. It would make sense, you know? I mean, today's ep was just sort of foreshadowing...because Lana never actually got hurt, and Chloe got the crap beat out of her. So...*pulls out crystal ball* I see a Beacon meeting- I mean, DOOM! in her future!

Uh...I think Final Fantasy X is going to make me cry. Dammit! What happened to the happy ending? Where did it go...it seems like every time I blink, I've missed it...

Hey, I was just wonderin'...Clark's x-ray vision thing...wouldn't it like, be unhealthy to complex electrical devices and things like computers and such? And wouldn't it mess with people's internal organs and brainwaves? I mean, it is x-ray vision, and last I checked that wasn't all too healthy a thing to have pointed at you at all times...

Smallville is such a delightful show. Tonights ep, for instance: when the People/Person Affected by Krypton of the Day (PAKOD) were about to scarper off out of Luthor Castle, they told the Bald One to turn around. So he does, but bends over as well. What was he expecting, hmm? *cackles* Dude. I am so easily amused.
And hey, what's up with Whitney telling Clark all his problems before he tells his girlfriend, huh? I dunno, but...
I will repeat: I am so easily amused.

Wow. I love girlscouts.

"Oh, wow, your a stubborn fertile bitch."
"My hands are earth hands? Aw, maaaaan!"
"Do I have to stand here with my wand shooting steel blue sparks and like smack someone with it?" "Why, yes, that will do nicely."
"It's crazier than a shish-kabobbed rat!" "Wow, that's pretty crazy."
"MORE THAN TWO!!!"
"I'M COMING WITH YOU!"
"BEHIND THE COUCH, I'VE BEEN SAVED!!"

"May your inner monologue have the voice of a newscaster!"
"I'm saved, I'm saved! I'm coming with you!"
"Do I get a kit?"
"Look, look, they all wrote 2 pages, count them one-two!" "One...two!" "And then I wrote...eight pages! Look, look!" "....More than two!!! Franklin education at its best!"

"More than TWO!!!!"
"So since his roommate stole his pizza, he stole a cadaver from the medlab and hid it in the back of the guys truck and called campus police on him and they were all like 'sir, we'd like to check your trunk for dead bodies' and the guy was all like 'okay, sure!' because I mean who expects to find dead bodies in their trunk?"
"So what would you do if I actually caught fire?" "LAUGH!!"
"Oooh! Hey, can I read fiery death in your palm?" "Well, I'd really rather have sharp and pointy death." "Eh. I'll see what I can do."
"So then his roommate was like "Can I come with you? I'm already saved." to the Jehova's Witnesses and he just followed them around door to door bouncing up and down saying "I'm saved! I'm saved!" behind them. And now whenever I see Steve I shout "CAN I COME WITH YOU!!?"
"If I wanted to read FEET I'd make her take her shoes off!"
"Poke a nose!" "Hey, isn't that like in New York? And isn't there snow there?"
"No worry lines? No stress lines? I HAVE NO ANGST! What am I going to do with myself?!"
"

Oh, hey. The Olympics. I'd almost forgotten.
Figureskating kicks arse, lots of it, and hard. And short track speedskating...yum.

See, it's kinda funny how in my house, yes, we're all Americans and we ought to be rooting for the American teams but...I think me and my mom end up cheering just as hard for the Russians. (We're all secretly communist revolutionaries, shh.) So we were all ecstatic when Alexei whatsisname and the other Russians won medals in figureskating. *cheers* Huzzah! Even happier we were than when Sarah Hughes and Michelle Kwan won medals, or when the Canadians won. Because, you know, Canadian people are in general coo', and we're supposed to cheer for the Americans. And because I don't feel like analyzing and fixing the syntax of that sentence. Muddle through on your own, this is my blog and I know what I'm talking about. *g*

And as for Apollo Anton Ohno...well, I didn't start it, it was this girl in my English class who had gotten her hands on a newspaper and was apparently licking the picture of him in it. Yes, licking the picture of Apollo Ohno. Now, I ask you, why should this be so surprising? He is an eminently lickable person, you know. (Gad, you have no idea how many weird looks I got when I actually said that.) His chin tail is cute, what can I say? (*grumbles* I wasn't the one licking the paper, you know...)

So, yay, Olympics. They're shiny, very shiny.

I think one of my biggest inspirations for Birds of a Feather (other than my sad, sad little life), character wise, was Visions of Escaflowne. It's slowly hitting me how very unoriginal the story and characters are...which is only made worse by the fact that they all live in my head and get to be true bitches when I don't treat them nice. I've been trying to figure out where my characters came from- Dei is a combination of a bunch of people that I know (or are related to me, sadly...) and a lot of anime characters. Folken, especially, I think. The similarities just struck me, and I figured I'd record it.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Opal definitely has a lucky scrunci and a collection of stuffed animals that she sleeps with. *bashes forehead against wall* My main character, and I still know hardly anything about her. Gaaaaahhhh.

Ach. DAMN is it fricken' freezin' in here! I should put on more clothes, I guess, but still. *whimpers* It's coooooold. You'd think we would have the heat on or something, it being FEBRUARY and all, but nooo....that would make *sense*.

It's fair amusing, you know...I am the last person you'd think would give something inanimate a cutesy name...but here I am clutching dear Ophelia, even though my fingers are freezing. (Though I suppose "Ophelia" hardly has any cutesy connotation...and she's a violin, so that sort of also removes even more cutesy connotations.) *wanders around, dropping connotations left and right* I always hated figuring connotation in fifth grade. Damn Ms Rogan, the eveil beetch.

Huh. I really am a prolific babbler, aren't I?

Random Character Spotlight
name: Tayrin Amarkand
alias: Blaine Torkehav (there ought to be some sort of crazy umlaut thingy there, but I dun know how to make one)
story: The Hunter's Sea (previously known as Foxbird)
age during story: 29
Tayrin, or rather Blaine, since no one but the Guildmaster knows who he used to be, was a Guild brat. Assassin's guild, that is. Both his parents were assassins, his mother specializing in sharp and pointy death, his father in blunt and heavy death. Everyone expected young Tayrin to follow in his parents footsteps...and he tried, he really did. But he was more inclined to hurt himself with the many weapons of death, pain, and destruction the Guild tried to train him with. It wasn't that he was clumsy; on the contrary, he had a dancer's grace. But if you gave him a knife, he'd accidentally slit his wrist. The only the he could be safely left alone with was a staff, and even then he'd manage to break his toes if you didn't watch him carefully. But he was fast, and stealthy, and intelligent. His parents gave up on him and he gladly left the Guild with their blessing and decided that since he'd been born on the wrong side of the law, he might as well stay there.

He became a thief. And, surprise, surprise, he was good at it. It did wonders for his self-esteem; not that he'd ever been teased for his inability to use weapons by the other children living in the Guild- his parents were too well respected and well known for that. But Tayrin was his own worst critic, so he'd been a rather quiet and depressed child with the assassins. As a thief, though, he was the opposite, and often took crazy risks and still manage to pull things off. He was living up to his reputation for being immortal up until he tried to burgle the house of a mage- one trapped chest later, and he found himself bleeding to death in an alley outside the house.

He would have died, but as luck would have it, one of his old year-mates from the assassin's guild was passing by after having hit his mark- he took Tayrin back to the assassin's guild and they healed him as best they could. He recovered, but the left side of his face was horribly scarred- the whole left side of his body, actually. The magic that had hit him had done more than injure him, though; to his horror, he found that he'd had some throwback latent healing ability that was now manifesting itself rather painfully. He nearly went insane the first week after his abilities appeared.

And, to make matters worse, his parents had been assimilated by the Guildmaster and were as good as dead, betrayed by their comrades. (The Assassin's Guild isn't just a singular little group of death-dealers; they're a whole fricken' society living under the city. The Guildmaster has had its job for longer than the city has stood; it just goes from body to body as the old ones wear out.) The plus side to this was that there were now two Guildmasters, even though they were actually the same person, and Tayrin would have a place in the Guild as a healer- assassins can always use more people to put them back together.

Gone was the overconfident Tayrin; enter Blaine, the angsty healer. Or, that's what he would have been, had it not been for Foxbird and the Shrive. The Shrive are magical creatures that usually take the form of cats; they speak telepathically with pictures and feelings, and they have a bunch of nifty abilities that make them quite useful. They're also highly intelligent and they play favorites. The entire population of Shrivecats decided that they really liked Blaine, and he suddenly had a retinue of magical creatures following him around at all times. It helped his ego, at any rate, though the Shrive did tend to make sarcastic comments at him constantly.

Foxbird is his adopted daughter- she isn't human, and no one really knows what she is- the Shrive found her and brought her to the Guild when Blaine had just started seriously considereing spending the rest of his life sulking. He got stuck raising her. Fortunately, she matured rather quickly, and they have less of a father-daughter relationship than a best friends sort of thing going. Foxy became a well-paid, highly skilled assassin, and she doesn't hesitate to smack Blaine over the head when he's being too whiny.

And for a while he had a pretty good thing going, between the Shrive, Foxy, and his not unsubstantial healing skill. Of course, he was rather painfully shy around crowds, and he had an irrational paranoia around strangers, and his self-esteem tended to fluctuate dangerously, but aside from that, he was fine. And then he met Silverlock, and things got a bit more complicated.

By the time the story starts, (skipping through several years of angst, sex, screaming, bitch-slapping, and crying), Blaine and Silverlock are something of an established couple within the Guild (which has over a thousand members in the Rothcar branch alone), to the delight of everyone who never believed that Silverlock would stop being a slut. And Blaine acquires a healthy self-esteem and some common sense (finally). And when it finally seems that he's not going to break down and start angsting again, assassins start disappearing mysteriously and reappearing in small pieces elsewhere, and then Silverlock goes out on a mission, and all that comes back are his hands and a pile of mangled flesh and bones.

Needless to say, things sort of go downhill from there.
* * *
I really, really like Blaine, which is probably why I make him so annoying and do such horrible things to him. (I like making my characters cry- I'm such a horrible sadist.) And the details of the Guild, the Shrive, and his relationship with Silverlock are all rather complicated- the little snippet I wrote is from long before the story actually starts, but might end up in some sort of flashback sequence. Blaine isn't the main character for The Hunter's Sea; that Foxbird, but you wouldn't be able to tell from the way I've written things, would you? Heh.

"Anyway, there are only two things to write about- life and death."
- Edward Albee

Uh, yeah. "All Over". Disturbing. Good. Inspired that *points down*. Problem is, it worked much better in my head last night, and now it's been too long since the inspiration hit me, so it didn't come out quite right. It's a little harder to write script style- there's too much room for interpretation. *crooked grin* I just wish I could remember that one line about grammar..."One cannot be dead. The verb 'to be' indicates a state of existence, whereas 'dead' indicates a lack thereoff. Once cannot be at the same time one is dead." ...only that's not quite right. You get the gist of it though.

And, um, I really ought to start making new characters, rather than taking ones from other stories and putting them in different situations. I keep doing that, and while it means I get to know them all much better than I'd like to, it reveals quite a few disturbing things that I'd really rather not have known.

(The room is richly furnished, and it is filled with evidence of life; the expensive leather furniture is worn in places, scratched in others. There are unidentifiable stains on the exquisite Persian rugs. The fireplace has a few charred logs in it still- there is a large chunk of the mantle missing, and scratches in the wall around it. There are three ceiling to floor windows, with heavy dark blue velvet drapes. They are drawn, but a little light escapes around the edges- there are ceiling track lights casting a bright glow on the occupants of the room; a single candle is lit on the table. Along one wall is a sideboard covered in liquor, the expensive kind that you never see in the bottle, only in elegant crystal caraffes. There are three glasses lined up there, two empty and with lipstick stains, and one half-full with a chipped stem. The sideboard has teeth marks on it. The WIFE and MISTRESS sit on either sides of the room, in identical chairs in the foreground. They are staring at each other, not saying anything. The SON reclines on the couch, his eyes closed. The HALF-BROTHER paces restlessly, practically vibrating with barely suppressed energy. The DAUGHTER-IN-LAW sits in a straight backed chair, behind the others. She stares at her hands.)

MISTRESS (standing suddenly): Look at us. Look at us!
(She is wearing gray; her hair is very curly and very blonde, but at the moment it is tied back in a bun. She is wearing no make-up, and it is obvious from the redness of her eyes that she has been crying. Apparently, she is the only one.)

WIFE (lazily): What's there to look at?

MISTRESS: We're such- such an overdone cliche! The wife, the children, the lover, all waiting outside his bedroom, waiting, waiting, waiting-

WIFE: Waiting for him to die.

MISTRESS: Stop it! How can you just sit there like that and just-

WIFE (sharply): Do stop making a scene. This is hardly the time or the place for it.
(The MISTRESS sits down suddenly and buries her head in her hands. The WIFE smiles a tight-lipped smile.)
It won't be long now. Then you can cry all you like, and everyone will see you and say "Look at her, see how she carries on. I wonder how much she's getting from him- must not be enough, why else would she go on, and on-"

HALF-BROTHER: Shut up.
(The DAUGHTER-IN-LAW flinches when he speaks, and her shoulders slump even further.)

WIFE: You belong here even less than her. If there's anyone here who should be silent, it's you. (snidely) There are three people in this room who belong here, and the claim of one of those three is shaky at best. (She glances pointedly at the DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, who doesn't notice.) So sit down and stop making a nuisance of yourself.

MISTRESS: Don't speak to him like that!

WIFE (standing): Why not? l'll speak however I want to whomever I want in my own house! Who are you to tell me what to do?

MISTRESS: Your house? Your house- oh, that's a good one! Why did you marry him? (standing) Why? Tell your own son, why don't you, why you married his father. Tell us all, why don't you. (savagely) This isn't your house- it never was.

WIFE (angrily): I beg your pardon.

MISTRESS (suddenly hysteric, she rushes across the room and slaps the WIFE and starts shouting): YOU NEVER LOVED HIM! Never! All you ever cared about was his money, that's all and you never gave a damn, not once about him. You _never_ loved him!

WIFE (ignoring her red cheek, she just stares at the MISTRESS): (quietly, smugly) And he never loved you.
(The MISTRESS puts her hand to her mouth in shock, and stumbles back to her chair. The HALF-BROTHER looks from the WIFE to the MISTRESS and back again and finally goes to stand beside his mother. He places his hand on her shoulder and glares at the WIFE, who smiles and sits back down.)

SON (eyes still closed, still reclining on the couch): Shut up, all of you. (HALF-BROTHER opens his mouth. SON raises one hand and points at him without opening eyes.) _All_ of you.

WIFE: Oh, don't start. Go back to sleep- you're the one I was talking about, anyway. There's no point in your being here- there's no point in any of your being here-

MISTRESS: Especially you.

WIFE (as though she hadn't been interrupted): And you all may as well just go home. He won't die tonight, the old fool is too stubborn to let us off easy.

DAUGHTER-IN-LAW: (very quietly) Stop it.

WIFE: She speaks! And here I was thinking my son ripped out your vocal chords.

DAUGHTER-IN-LAW: (still staring at her hands, now trembling slightly) Oh, he tried that.

WIFE: But he failed. I'm not surprised.

DAUGHTER: Haven't you said enough? (looking up) Don't you think its about time you just put it all to rest and moved on?

MISTRESS: She's having too much fun, can't you tell?

DAUGHTER: You're right. (louder) Look at you- all of you. You're pitiful.
(The SON opens his eyes and sits up, slowly. The DAUGHTER-IN-LAW stands up and walks as far away from him as possible, to stand beside the sideboard.) Do any of you even care that he's dying in that room, all alone? That maybe, just maybe this might be the time to stop thinking about yourselves and have, for just ONE MINUTE some respect for the dying?

SON (ironically): You're one to talk about respect, wife.

HALF-BROTHER (moving away from the MISTRESS to stand beside the DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. She turns to face the wall, away from all of them.): Leave her alone. It was your own fault you know. If you hadn't been such a-

MISTRESS: Oh, for God's sake, can we all stop getting so hung up on who slept with who? That's what started this whole mess in the beginning- we're all too selfish and self-absorbed to give a damn about anything but ourselves and look where it's gotten us! Look at us!

I've been feeling the oddest urge to listen to Macy Gray. This is a disturbing trend and must be studied in depth. *puts on coke-bottle glasses* Hmmm, velly, velly intelesting...

Er...do I look like a laundry basket? Because my mom seems to think that I do...why else would she be piling random articles of clothing on top of me?

It has occurred to me that
a) I ain't really the shits at spelling
b) wherever I go to college, they'd sure as hell better not expect me to shave my legs every day (or every week)
c) taking anything seriously is just going to ge me in a hell of a lot of trouble
d) the more I babble, the more compelled I feel to keep doing it.
Hn. Interesting.

Fuckit, why does everybody have to be so much cooler and more talented than me? (Pardon the bad grammar, I'm feeling depressed. Like a pancake.)

On the subject of honesty:
"The truth will set you free"
Whoop dee forkin' doo, hey? I mean, I can't stand liars, I hate people who lie, I feel awful when I don't tell the truth (possibly the reason for the horrible, horrible GUILT I feel at all times, but, y'know...), and it just bothers me when people spout of lies glibly. But life is really just a series of little white lies...you tell your parents you've done your homework, you tell you're friends you're busy and can't come over, you tell you're teachers you thought you handed in that assignment...you tell yourself you'll change eventually, and that things will get better after a while...Sure, it's nothing big, but it's the little things that make life that much easier, right?

I don't know why it bothers me so much...I just feel that if you can't be honest with other people, you may never be honest with yourself, and that's dangerous. And being honest isn't the same as telling the truth; most people don't see the difference, or so I've found, but there is a difference. I try to tell the truth at all times; it's just something I do, because it makes me trustworthy and I feel the need to be trusted. It's a self-worth thing. But lately I haven't been very honest...and (again with the raging guilt thing) it's gotten to the point where it's giving me a severe migraine. Told you it was dangerous.

There are some things that just set me on edge- make my fur stand on end, so to speak. Dishonesty is one of them. It's part of the reason I don't get along with my brother very well, and part of the reason I didn't like Brian much, or Gloria...

Like so much that I do, this has no point. But I'm feeling depressed (forkin' moodswings and inferiority complexes) and this was bothering me. It still is, mind you, but my fingers aren't working properly, so I'll quite while I'm ahead. Or behind. Or whatever. *sigh*

Ooh, hey, I feel loved. Not that I want to, you know, but in this case I don't mind. (Hey, maybe I should give up on guys altogether and start looking for a girlfriend. But wait- I live in the armpit of the world. There are no real people here, I swear.)

Oy. I be lazy, you know. But I'm feeling that particular itching in my fingers that means I want to draw something. Any suggestions? Maybe I should get around to painting that CC thing I did...but I'm afraid of my watercolors. With Good Reason, too. Hopefully the actual watercolor paper will help, and it won't look so shitty, but...hell, I'm not an artist. And I've got a bunch of sketches lying around that I need to actually do something with- it's a shame I have to go somewhere today. Thank the All it's only for three and a half hours, and if I break his heart completely, I can probably run out an hour or so early...*cackles evilly* Wait, wait- I don't want to do that. (If it weren't for the fact that I see him so often in school, I probably would, though.)

Gad, I am so easily amused.

*sigh* Why is it that in general, guys just don't do this sort of thing? I mean, in my experience, they all tend to avoid introspection like cultures of the Bubonic Plague (wait, no, bad analogy, seeing as most of them would be delighted to have a plague to play with...), but quite a few of the ones that I know do do this writing thang...but not the whole journal-on-the-web-for-the-whole-world-to-see. Or, in my case, journal-on-the-web-for-the-whole-world-aside-from-my-friends-to-see. Perhaps also known as a JOTWFTWWAFMFTS. (jot-wift-waf'm-fits) Not that I really care; at this point if every male of the species between the ages of fourteen and nineteen were to disappear, I would be beyond happy. (Well, that's not necessarily true, because then I'd have no one to sit with at lunch. But still.)

And another thing- why does it sometimes feel like I'm the only fricken' person in my entire town who has a webpage with writing and similar shiz? Am I some sort of freakish outcast even to the other freakish outcasts out there? Are they hiding from me? Or do I really live in the mud pit of the world where most people's idea of 'being connected' involves AOL and chatrooms? If I lived somewhere else, would there be actual people I could relate to there? 'Cuz, you know, here in dear old Franklin, there don't seem to be any. At all. The closest thing to the society of angst-filled teen and early twenty something female writer/artists on the web at Franklin would be...Billy. And that's really, really scary.

I think I'm really just a little annoyed by the fact that I have no one to discuss the merits of video game yaoi with. But I do sometimes wonder if this place really is the dirty armpit of the world- it seriously resembles it at times.

"But...how are we supposed to know? How can we tell that what we're doing is right? Did- did I miss something?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his short, feathery hair. The sunset colored the already crimson locks the color of red gold. "No, Paige, you didn't miss anything. You can't tell; you just have to go on instinct and pray to whatever you believe in that you've made the right choice."

She chewed on her lip for a moment, and dug out her quill and book from her voluminous sleeve panels. "So...all the uncertainty, all the doubt and fear- it's all normal? I'm not doing anything wrong?" The quill hovered over the unblemished pages of the book, poised and ready to stain the creamy white surface with black slashes- it had always reminded him of a battle, with shrapnel flying and slicing open holes in his comrades. The pages bled ink.

"No...you haven't done anything wrong. You've done everything right." He didn't like this- her questions always made him feel uncomfortable, as though he were the one who didn't understand. But he did; he knew he did. He didn't look as the last Innocent scribbled notes in the pages of her book. Watching her write felt vaguely voyeristic and sacriligeous.

"But that means that you could be wrong, and then I would be wrong...what if everybody is wrong? What if there is a way to know? Wouldn't that solve all the problems in the world?" She nibbled on the end of her quill absently.

Templar shivered. "There isn't, Paige. Believe me."

She wrote furiously, the quill making little screetchscritch noises against the paper. "I don't believe you, Tem. I'm going to find it- I'll find a way to know the difference between right and wrong. I'll figure out what it is that we're all expected to do, and I'll tell everybody, all the people in the world. Then everybody will be happy, and no one will have any more problems. Come on! We should get going. It might take a while, and you don't have forever."

He gaped at her as she marched towards the waiting horses. A stiff breeze assaulted her, sending the scant silk of her dress billowing- the little golden chains that ran from her neck to her wrists and down to her ankles chimed musically in the wind. Even at this distance he could see her eerily colorless eyes, waiting patiently for him. As always, they were brimming with joyful innocence. What had he gotten himself into?

You keep on talking, even though you don't have a clue. But as long as you keep on making noise, you won't have to think about it too hard. And no one will ask any questions, either. Just fill the silence with noise, and no one will know it's all because you're too afraid to shut your mouth.

Well. It certainly is a relief to know that I can get pissed off at things. Wait, wait- no it isn't. Fuck this.

"You know, it's funny, because everyone expects me to be quiet..."
"I don't expect you to be quiet. Hells, the thought never crossed my mind. Prayed for you to be quiet, fervently hoped for it, yes..."
"Ah, shaddap!"
"Why, I've even made voodoo dolls of you and sewn their mouths shut to try and make you be silent..."

More Boffo babble:
So, the other thing about the angels and demons is that they aren't separate things; two sides of the same coin, if you catch my drift. They're the same species, but they're all too stuck up and self-centered to admit that now. I'll have to work out a correct history for this, but the gist of the situation is that a proper, ball of energy, super-powerful angel can only be born (spawned, really) from an angel and a demon. It takes two, one of each, to reproduce properly. And since they're shapeshifters and don't have genders aside from preference, they don't really need to have sex. (*chorus of "Aw, damn" from the background*) It just requires a lot of ritual and a lot of energy, and somehow a piece of each parent gets separated out and it takes on its own personality. So every angel has a demonic brother or sister and vice versa- the spawning ritual always has a net product of two. (That sentence both amuses and bothers me, for some strange reason.)

Of course, because they are shapeshifters without set genders, they can shift down into humans or rabbits or something and inbreed...the angels don't do this; it's a crime punishable by some nasty shit that would make what they did to Radueriel look pleasant. The demons on the other hand, have no qualms about it and occasionally do go at it like rabbits. (That sentence bothers and amuses me too.) So, yeah, there have been super-powerful demonic bunnies of doom. A whole litter of them. But they all got hit by a car and died because, well, they're rabbits. But the children of an actual physical mating aren't pureblood...let's call 'em Celestials, since I'm getting tired of typing demons and/or angels. It's awkward. Children of inbreeding are mortal and typically limited to forms similar to that which they were born in; so if two demons shift to humans and have a kid, the baby demon will be stuck as a human or something very like a human. They're treated as second class citizens in Hell. And the more inbred the children, the weaker and less...stable they are. Second generation demons are superior to ordinary humans, and not too much weaker than first generation ones; anything past third generation, however, will be useless for anything but menial slave work. All of the random servants and workers in the Karolus Manor (Gad, that sounds pretentious and silly) are fourth and fifth. Catenus and Lilian are first generation demons; Cara and Jance are second gen.

Yeah. I think about these things too much. And I thing most of my ideas for the opposite polarity and powerswere inspired by L.E. Modesitt Jr.; The Saga of Recluse kicks ass, doncha know. Only his angels are angels of darkness and order. But I figure it would be a hell of a lot more fun to have a bunch of holy psychotic creatures running around; and they are all psychotic. All of them, even the quiet ones. (or, perhaps, especially the quiet ones...;))

Gotta go, but I'll be back to this later.

Boffo babble part duo:
So I was sitting around staring at the wall, as I am won't to do, when a thought crosses my mind: what the hell are the demons and angels, anyway? Well. I've figured out a few things, but they won't tell me everything (damn secretive bastards).

First thing is that they're old. Very old. As far as anyone knows, they don't die of old age; they can commit suicide, which basically means they violently disrupt the bonds that tie them to reality- any reality, since they operate and several different ones. This usually involves a complicated ritual or a lot of energy; in Lilian/Leala's case, it involved a little of both, and it still caused a very messy tear in the spaces between this world and all the other ones out there. That's how the Shade got to Dei- Catenus felt her die and took advantage of the resulting hole in the fabric of reality. They can also die if hit by their opposite; for an angel, demon thrown lightning or ice, and for a demon, angelfire. Things like stars exploding have been known to take them down as well, but only if they're weak and young.

Age equates to power, so Lucifer, being one of the oldest angels alive, is also one of the most powerful. Catenus is young compared to Queen Lilith, but old compared to the rest of the population of demons. Leala was older than him by several millenia. Radueriel is about the same age as Leala; Shateiel, Leiliel, Metatron, and Sadriel are all very old. Powers differ between individuals, but it's a given that an angel will in general be able to fling fire around; they are creatures of light and heat and chaos; the demons are their polar opposite, controlling cold, darkness, and order. Angels also play around with things like sound, speed and nuclear radiation (I haven't quite figured that one out yet, either), while the demons get electricity and weather patterns. This is something of a generalization, since there are angels of darkness, order, ice, etc...just as there are demons who are most comfortable dealing in fire and brimstone. Regardless of the demon or angel's chosen area of expertise, if hit by something from the other side hard enough, they'll explode quite violently.

They are shapeshifters, before all else. In their natural forms, they resemble Vandergraff generators (I know I spelled that wrong), only not. You see Lucifer's true form in the beginning of chapter six, in the garden- he's just a spinning ball of light. The demons are the same, only darkness. In essence, the are pure energy, sheer power, that just up and decided to go screwing with the universe one day. The angels can take more damage, more negative energy to their systems, than the demons can stand positive energy.

In general the angels are tougher, but they pay for this with slightly diminished mental capacity...most of them are masculine, or choose to take masculine forms when shapeshifting. Not all, but there are definitely more male or masculine-androgenous angels than there are female. They are chaotic- it comes from constantly giving off energy all the time, and many of them act perpetually wired. Fallen angels tend to be exceptions to this, but they're a whole 'nother kettle of fish. Angels have more power at their disposal than the demons do, but it has often been proved that sometimes a little finesse is more effective than destroying planets when it comes to getting your point across.

Demons are creatures of ritual- they are orderly and self-contained, and what they lack in terms of sheer power compared to the angels, they make up in terms of scheming, sneaky, well thought out plans. I mean, Catenus has been planning this whole fiasco for millenia, ever since Radueriel was felled; about six thousand years ago, in terms of the story. Most demons choose female or female-androgenous forms, but again, there are exceptions.

Laughing black eyes caught his own dull gray ones for a moment, as if to say I see you, I know you are there, before turning away to someone else. Blaine shivered and shrank back closer to the wall, trying to disappear into the soft tapestries adorning the cool stone. He hated these events, hated them with a passion. There were too many people here, too many looks of revulsion that glided over him as quickly as possible to find something less...disgusting to look at. He hated their revulsion, and he hated their sympathy even more. It sickened him, made his insides twist in fear and self-loathing.

It wasn't healthy. He was a healer, of course he knew it wasn't healthy. These social gatherings shouldn't have made him feel on the verge of a breakdown- it had been long enough since his accident that he should have been long used to the glances and the pity and the revulsion. And he'd been told time and time again, by the Shrive, by the Guildmaster, by Foxbird- he'd been told repeatedly that he didn't look half as bad as he thought he did. He knew he didn't look half as bad as he thought he did. But knowing and feeling are two completely different things. And it was the feeling that made him want to vanish.

He had been so caught up in his misery that he hadn't even noticed the solid figure sneaking up on him- the Assassin's guild prided itself on being better at sneaking than even the thieves, Blaine remembered with irony. Maybe that's why I fucked everything up so badly- I should have stuck to killing and not tried to save anybody. Still those laughing black eyes weren't going to be ignored, no matter how badly he wanted to ignore them.

"If you think you can hide over here, you are sadly mistaken." The half-elven assassin reclined against the wall. Silverlock D'Alestri never stood or leaned anywhere- he lounged and reclined, always perfectly at ease. His trademark gray streak in his long black hair trailed loosley down his temple, the rest of his hair caught up in an impressively complex knot. Silver was known for being as flamboyant and showy as possible at these damned "occasions"; today was no exception. He was wearing his most offensive set of robes, ruby colored silk inscribed with obscene magical sigils that reminded everyone in the room that he was a blood mage. The heavy ruby encrusted gold collar he wore only served to remind everyone that he was a half-elf, and therefore even further deplorable.

Blaine shrugged and tried to retreat even further within himself. It wasn't that the half-elf made him uncomfortable- Silverlock was impossible to dislike unless he wanted to be disliked, a fact that never failed to disconcert the populace as a whole. "I hate these things," he said softly, deciding to be honest.

"I know you do, and I'll let you leave in a moment-" Silver's eyes danced, as though he were in on some sort of huge cosmic joke that no one else knew the punchline to. "But you have to dance with me first."

Blaine swallowed, his throat suddenly very, very dry. "Wh-what?" He was suddenly acutely aware of how he must look, standing next to the famed Silverlock. His clothing, as always, was simple; earth tones had always suited him, had always helped him to blend in and go unnoticed. Next to the blood mage he was like a sparrow beside a phoenix.

Silver smiled and took his hand. "Dance with me, Healer. Then I'll let you leave and won't mention it to the Guildmaster."

"I- I don't know how to dance..." Blaine bowed his head to hide the bright scarlet his face had become. At this rate he would resemble Silverlock's robes...

A gentle hand lifted his chin, while equally gentle fingers brushed his hair away from his face; he was forced to look into those laughing eyes, and forced to reveal the horrendous scars that disfigured the left side of his face. Silverlock smiled, laughter still barely contained within his inky eyes. "To be perfectly honest, Blaine, I don't give a damn."

There was really no way he could argue with that, was there? Or so he tried to convince himself as the stately assassin pulled him onto the dance floor.

---------- Aw, I've been wanting to write something cute involving those two characters for a while. I suck at romance, you know, especially the disgustingly sugary kind- and if Blaine and Silverlock are anything, it's saccharine. At least, they are once Silver gets over himself, and once Blaine gets over his numerous 'issues'...I ought to work on that story. Hn.

It isn't warm and fuzzy. It isn't kind. It certainly isn't merciful. Oh, it can be- it can pretend to be all smooth corners and long tones, sweeping melodies that sound like cream to your ears. But beneath that soft and gentle exterior, it's as deadly and unforgiving as a pile of razor edged rocks at the end of a very, very long fall. It's like putting on a suit of barbed wire, all sharp and jagged and clawing. It doesn't let go until it's done with you, and even then it remains with you, a ghost, haunting the vague edges of your mind, replaying itself over and over again in your ears until you, like a poor, beaten dog, like a fool, go back to do it again.

It's a drug. A deadly, violent, powerful drug that catches you up in its throes and then flings you away, pulls you back, dashes you to glittering shards, and bashes you to pieces. Then it gathers you up, mixed and matched in all the wrong ways, and does it all over again. And then you go back for more when it's done. The sounds wrap around you in a stranglehold, and even though you can't breath, can't see, can't do anything but listen and feel, even though you know that if it doesn't let go, it will kill you, you hold onto it as tightly as it grasps you.

It's more than just sound. It's sensation, and emotion, and concentrated life, pouring out of wood and metal and flesh. It's the dizzying crescendo, crescendo, crescendo then SLAM! chord, major, minor, falling of seventh diminished, accents violent, shocking decrescendo, the quiet leaving you stunned as you recover to go back for another round as the melody moves on and leaves you trembling in relief and aching, aching need. Need to feel that euphoric wholeness, but you can't stop yet, because it isn't over and you're a part of it anyway, be it melody, harmony, countermelody, or baseline. It's the rise and fall of scales, the triumphant chords that define for that moment who and what you are- you are the music, the notes and nothing else. You are part of a whole that is so much more important than you alone- perspective isn't allowed here. It would kill you.

It's in the sweep of the crescendo and decrescendo, the violence of the staccatto, the majesty of unison breaking into the complete wonder of the chord. It's in the jerk, sweep, swoosh, jab of your right hand as your wrist threatens carpal-tunnel while your grip slides up and down the cheap fiberglass until it's all you can do to clench your fist and hold on tighter, because the music won't let you go and if you let go of it, you'll be lost. It's in the sharp bite of wires into your fingers, slicing, cutting, tearing calluses into fingertips that you will never bother to manicure again. It's the vibrations that run through you, starting in your hands and running through your chest down your spine and back up again. You are a conduit, a conductor for the sheer energy as over and over again you slash through accents like a knight on a battlefield cutting down foes, like a hawk swooping down on prey, you rock with the beat, sway with it, dance with it until it resonates in every fiber of your being.

And after a while there's nothing else. Just the notes on the page, the violin in your hands, the rise and fall and rise and rise of the music all around you. You forget, for a moment, that you hate the people around you, that in three and a half minutes you will be back to making snide comments about that girl over there, or that boy who always loses his glasses, or those two stand partners who are joined at the hip- all that is forgotten as the music takes over. Wrong notes are ignored, shaky rythyms bowled over; you aren't playing the notes, you are playing the music, the heart and soul of creation, and it doesn't matter if everything is exact-computable-perfect. It doesn't matter.

For those few glorious moments, it doesn't matter. It's in the music, and it brings you all together until there is no thinking, there is only playing, only sensation and sound and soul, and there is no need for anything else.

If there is a God, this is surely it.

And that particular little snippet disturbs me more than you might think...

Oh no, there you go
Looked away, missed the show
How much waste and time
Will you survive?
-Duncan Sheik, Wishful Thinking

"I don't think I can do this anymore."

Her words hung in the silence like Christmas baubles, shining and fragile and waiting to be broken. Asking to be broken. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, head bowed, long strands of hair falling slowly from her shoulders to dangle before her eyes. She was thin, now. Very thin, and fragile. Waiting to be broken.

He had frozen the moment she'd opened her mouth, the way he always did. It hurt him to see her so...diminished. The gilded music of her voice had dulled to a green copper twang that nearly grated on his ears. But he still hung on her every word, her every fragile bauble of speech, as though they were gifts of gold and jewels from a merciful angel. His merciful angel. She was more than he had ever deserved, of that he was quite certain. It didn't surprise him that she wanted out.

His eyes held the look common to that of deer or small rodents caught in the headlights of a truck. "C-Can't do what anymore?" The slight stutter betrayed him- she was the only one who had ever been able to make him stutter. She was the only one who could make everything else seem trivial, who could make even the trivial seem monumental.

"This." She gestured futilely, looking up for a moment. Her hands fluttered like butterflies before settling back to her lap again. Her eyes were rimmed in red and purple, the colors of weeping and weariness. "I-I can't stay here anymore. I can't..."

He nodded and turned away. "Then don't." He was not bitter. He would not be bitter. He would not be angry. He would not feel betrayed..."Just don't. Get out of here if you can't take it anymore. Just- just get out of here!"

She flinched. "I'm sorry." She stood, like a flower blooming in fast-forward. "I tried, you know. I tried."

"Yes." It was a statement, an agreement. "You tried. But you failed."

Some of her fragility vanished beneath the sudden fire of her anger. "I failed? It isn't my fault that you- you- Don't blame this on me! Don't blame this on me! I won't let you- you can't blame this on me! You failed. You're the one who couldn't live up to expectations, you're the one who always fell short- of everything! You failed me, and I tried, God knows I tried! I tried to pick up your pieces every time you fell apart, I tried to support you and love you and keep you safe and happy. I tried!. And no matter what I did, no matter how much of myself I gave, you still fell, you still broke under all the pressure. But now there's nothing left and I'm not going to try anymore! Do you hear me? You failed me, and I've given up on you!"

He stumbled back, as though she'd struck him. His eyes had lost their glazed look, replaced it with a look of hatred, hatred that was so very close to love. But then it was gone, replaced once again by sadness, apathy, and remorse. "Yes."

She fell back to the couch, her shoulders trembling. "I tried...I'm so sorry, but I can't..."

He moved to stand beside her, offering his presence as a small amount of comfort. "We both failed."

His words shattered the fragile bauble that was their life. And he stood there, while she cried, unable to do a thing.

"I'm sure I could make you do it. I'd just need an alabaster gargoyle and...a tub of crisco. You're lucky I don't have an alabaster gargoyle. Or a tub of crisco, for that matter. I guess I'll just have to use that margarine spread stuff. And that freaky bondage woman thing G gave me. Or I guess I could use that teddy-bear Pez dispenser..."
Oh. Dear.

Surrounded by the dust
The weight of centuries
It presses down upon them
Keeping them bound in their place

But when the lights are out
And there is no sound
To disturb them
They are freed, released for the night

Until a flashlight glows
Searchbeams across their surface
Interrupting their revels
And they freeze

But security walks by
And the art museum comes back to life
Paintings and sculptures
Hide the truth of their art

When they think no one is looking
They dance.

Yes! I did just write about tomatoes! Woohoo! I blame it on Bird by Bird:

"Next I talked to my slightly overweight alcoholic gay Catholic priest friend. I said, "Do you get jealous?"

He said, "When I see a man my own age in great shape, and I feel all conflicted, wishing I were that thin and yet at the same time wanting to lick him, is that jealously or is that appreciation?""

That line shouldn't amuse me so much, but it does. Does it ever. Good book. From now on I shall listen to my brocoli. Or, in my case, my tomato.

There are few things out there in the world better than a good, ripe, fresh Jersey tomato. No, I'm serious. A good tomato is one of life's greatest pleasures, if eaten properly. I'm endlessly thankful to live where I do, because it gives me access to some of the best tomatoes on the planet during the summer. Unfortunately, it is now winter, and good tomatoes are in short supply, but there are ways a person can make do.

The tomato is aesthetically pleasing, to begin with. The smooth roundness of it, the warm, sun-ripened weight of it in your hand: these things are almost Freudian in their joyful beauty. And the color, the blazing, fiery scarlet-orange, like so much solidified, organic fire; it's a color that just begs to be touched and admired. It's a color akin to that of desire- again with the Freudian thoughts, but really, the tomato is just such a wonderful thing to behold that it's no wonder it makes people think of sex.

A good tomato can be eaten in many ways; during the summer they are best just sliced up and eaten raw. Either standing alone with a fork, or as the gracing topmost achievement of a sandwich, they are perfect. A little vinegar, a little mustard, perhaps mayonaise, if that's your pleasure- the tomato is accented by all of these things in an immensely palate pleasing way. But the tomato does not require that it be eaten raw to be appreciated; the next time you find yourself peckish for a little grilled cheese, consider placing a slice of tomato on that slice of bread with the cheese- I assure you, you won't regret it. Or on a pizza- golden brown crust baked to perfection, bubbling cheeses smelling sinfully delectable, and the tomato, both in the sauce and lying tender and delicious on top- there is no greater form of perfection.

The tomato is wonderful in its versatility. It is delightful raw or cooked; marinated or plain; whole, diced, sliced, or cubed; it is so perfect for a sauce that indeed, many people no of no other form of sauce. And anyone who has not sampled a sun dried tomato, soaked in olive oil and basil, on top of a slice of fresh mozzarella has not truly lived.

If you are unfortunate enough to not have a ready supply of fresh, beautiful tomatoes, and all you can obtain are small, wrinkled, sad excuses for tomatoes because they are out of season and must be shipped in from Peru, do not despair! The versatility of the tomato shall save you- you can make pasta, or chilli, or just munch on those sun-dried tomatoes right out of the jar. Not having fresh tomatoes is indeed a sad thing, but one can make do without.

Now go, go and get your tomato fix for the day, and revel in the wonderful, glowing, round, scarlety goodness that is the tomato! Go!

Okay, now it's true that somewhere, buried deep, deep, deep inside of me, a hopeless romantic is chained to a wall and given a small ration of bread and water every week, just enough to keep her from wasting away completely into a hopeless romantic-shaped stain on the wall. However, since that hopeless romantic is buried so very deep, she doesn't get out much. And therefore my cynical and angry side gets a chance to rampage.

My cynical and angry side likes to rampage about Harry Potter. More specifically, Draco Malfoy. And if we want to go into detail, anyone falling in love with him, but especially Harry, Ron, Hermione, or Ginny. He is not a good little wizard who's just been misunderstood. He is not just aching for love- he's aching for power. He's in effin' Slytherin, for the blessed All's sake! Ambitious. The house that produced the most dark wizards- his father is one of Voldemort's lackeys, and it's quite obvious that he despises the muggles and muggle born just as much as the Dark Lord.

He calls Hermione a mudblood, which is obviously one of the worst things you can call anyone muggle born, given the reaction it got when he first called her that in the second book. He despises Ron and his entire family, not only because they are poor, but because they are muggle sympathisers. Ron et all hate him. They loathe and despise him, and anyone who has read to the end of the fourth book can see that there is little chance for his salvation.

Now, I'm not always one who sticks to cannon pairings in fanfiction- some of my favorite pairings are the weird ones with little evidence for support, actually. But it just pisses me off to see people writing this delightfully evil character as a sap who's really 'good at heart'. They boy's a jackass, dahlings. Get over it, and stop making some random character find his 'good side'.

Bah. *kicks something* I'll return to this topic again, I daresay. It just annoys me to no end- I seriously hope that J.K. Rowling has him annihilated by Harry or Ron at some point in the later books, just as a slap in the face to all the people who keep writing him as a nice person.

Er...this blogging thing is kinda addictive...
I think there's something you're not telling me.

Now why would you think a silly little thing like that?

Movement brought a searing pain to his head. Best to not do that, then. Because you're in my head and you don't belong there. How do I know you aren't lying?

You don't, silly boy. And maybe I am lying. You'll never know.

There were bandages wrapped around his wrists. When had those gotten there? He couldn't remember anything beyond telling the others to leave him alone. After that was nothing but blackness, and now, three days later, little but pain. What did you do to me?

I did nothing. You did it to yourself. Ask anyone, if you'd like. Just remember, I am the one with the power over your life, now. Not you. If I want you to die, nothing will stop you from bleeding to death next time.

He shivered, though the white walled room was hardly cold. Locked away in a rubber room, tied down so I won't hurt myself. Shame hit him like a physical blow, and were it not for his restraints, he would have curled into a fetal position and wept. As it was he simply squeezed his eyes shut and trembled; it was all he could do at this point.

Ah, how the mighty have fallen, the hateful voice whispered in his head. Look at yourself, a cringing madman who isn't even trusted to sit up on his own. It's no wonder your family hates you, no wonder they haven't come to see you. No wonder your brother blames you for everything. It may as well have been all your fault, you know. You are a worthless piece of scum, silly child. And you've no one to blame but yourself.

Go away...for God's sake, just go away! He wanted to scream, but didn't dare. Haven't you done enough already?

I can never do enough...if I stopped now, I wouldn't have caused you nearly enough pain...

He had no answer, no argument for the voice. He lay on the white table in the white room, with white cords binding his white skin together to keep his red blood from leaking out. He almost wished he could tear the bandages off, rip open the scars; at least then there would be a little color in his life...something other than white.

It just occurred to me that Guns 'n Roses' Sweet Child of Mine would be perfect as a theme song for Jubal. And that just cracks me up beyond belief. Don't worry, I will write about stuff other than Boffo, I promise. (But I can just see him wearing tight leather pants up on a stage screaming into a mic doing that guitar riff- wow, I shouldn't find that so funny or appropriate, but I do. *giggle*)

-"Ugh. What is an empire? I'll stick to writing fiction, thanks. None of that pseudo-political state of the world crap."
-"Well, you could be writing about the nature and effectiveness of the proselytization of an ion."
-"Proselytize an ion?"
-"Yeah. 'You will believe!'"
-"As it just sits there. Right."
-"Well, hey, it might change it's spin or something."
-"Actually, I think that proselytizing ions might be a good idea. You know, finding out the general beliefs of ions would be helpful; think about what it would say about the world and religion if it turned out that all ions were atheists."
-"Or about the universe. Dude. And yeah, and then you could always tell people- 'You must proselytize all the ions in my left foot before I'll listen to you' when they start to bug you."
-"Dude, that's a good idea. Because you have no idea the sort of crap I get from people in school. It's like, 'Hello, goodmorning, have you found Jesus yet?' every day."
-"Why, yes, I have found him. He was behind the couch. Hiding there."
-"And he stole the remote."
-"Yeah, if we hadn't dropped it back there, we would've missed him entirely."
-"He was trying to proselytize the ions in the couch runner."
-----Me 'n the devil- I mean, my brother.

"See, once I graduate, I've got to take this eight hour test- multiple choice engineering questions."
...
"But they're just multiple choice."
"Yeah, multiple choice. Multiple like rabbits!"
-on the subject of the EIT

Smart people jokes. Gotta love 'em. It seemed so much funnier at the time, actually. Like rabbits, you know.

Put on my blue suede shoes
And I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain
W.C. Handy-won't you look down over me
Yeah, I got a first class ticket
But I'm as blue as a boy can be

When I was walking in Memphis
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?

Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Watched him walk right through

Now security they did not see him
They just hovered around his tomb
Bu there's a pretty little thing
Waiting for the King
Down in the Jungle Room

When I was walking in Memphis
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?

They've got catfish on the table
They've got gospel in the air
And Reverend Green be glad to see you
When you haven't got a prayer
But boy you've got a prayer in Memphis

Now Muriel plays piano
Every Friday at the Hollywood
And they brought me down to see her
And they asked me if I would
Do a little number
And I sang with all my might
And she said
"Tell me are you a Christian child?"
And I said "Ma'am, I am tonight!"

When I was walking in Memphis
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?

Put on my blue suede shoes...
And I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain...
--Walking in Memphis, Cohn

This is Dei's theme song, I swear. (Couldn't you just see our favorite angst-child as an Elvis impersonator?) Really pertinent lyrics are stressed, but the whole song is just...him. He would do that, too, wander around singing in jazz clubs and such down in the deep south. New Orleans- he'd fit right in, there. *shivers* I love this song.

Boffo Babble part unus:

Okay, so there were originally only two main characters, and a villain. It was just Opal, Tyler, and Dei, and really, it was originally just Opal and Tyler, and I was just trying to write a sappy self-instertion romance. ... Well, it still feels like a sappy self-instertion romance at times, actually. It's funny, because Opal is the hardest character for me to write simply because she was originally a self-instertion. (And I'm getting the oddest feeling that I'm spelling that wrong...) I was fourteen, I thought I was in love, and I had a brand new notebook (and a giant purple troll, but that's definitely a story for another day); I sat down in my comfy pampasan chair and began writing.

I think it's rather interesting that the story also started off as a blatant copy of a story by another amateur writer whose work I respect a great deal...in the first, handwritten chapter in that birthday notebook, it's so blindingly obvious where I got the idea from that it hurts. But then, thankfully, Dei walked onto the scene and began acting psychotic- thus making it a slightly less blatant rip off of a different story by that same well-respected writer. *thwaps forehead* D'oi. By the time I'd started posting Boffo online, it had thankfully grown to have a bit of it's own personality...but unfortunately, the original stigma of unoriginality remained.

The story isn't original at all- of course, few things are, anymore, but Birds of a Feather is definitely less original than most things out there. It started out as a copy of something- yes, I was conciously doing that. As it progressed I began unconsciously taking ideas from other places, other books and authors...Reading the fourth book in the Crown of Stars quintology by Kate Elliot made me cringe, because I took quite a few of my plot devices from those books...Opal and Tyler, in particular. Read the books and you'll see what I mean- and I didn't even realize I was doing it.

I wasn't really paying attention to much of anything when I was writing the story, actually. I'd just sit and write, and whatever ended up on the paper ended up on the paper- the plot didn't reveal itself to me until some time around January of last year, which in terms of the story was during chapter 6- what is now chapter 8. Immediately after that are about twenty pages filled with writing that have all been crossed out save for one dream sequence that I stuck into chapter 7. Since I am now in that gray area of crossed out pages writing-wise, the final version will be my fourth try at writing this part of the story. I still don't like how it's turning out.

The universe that the story takes place in is a bit different from your typical good vs. evil, trying to save the world kinda shizbang. None of my characters (except maybe Jance and the Shades) are actually evil...Lucifer is just a trixter, and Catenus/Albion is doing it all for revenge, and love. As Dei's Shade says, "They only call themselves angels..." and as Queen Lilith will eventually say "We may be creatures of pure darkness, but that does not make us evil." The problem with this is that there's a lot of stuff to explain, like what the angels and demons really are, and why Radueriel plays such a significant part in ...everything. Jubal, too, and Tyler especially.

It's strange, how a simple, sappy romance story that was started because I was being a silly little ditz (I've grown a great deal more cynical in regards to romance in general because of my stupid actions at fourteen) turned into a giant "save the world or die trying" sort of thing. Emphasis on the "or die trying" part, I think.
Hey, here's something to think about if you ever read the damn thing- go over each of the characters, go through each chapter, and find Jesus. That's right- it's kinda like Where's Waldo, only not. Go on, figure out which one's a Christ-character.

...

That's right! They all are. And thus it is possible to see why this story frustrates me so damn much. My characters are all whiny martyrs- or worse, they're alcoholic whiny martyrs, or demonic whiny martyrs, or angelic whiny martyrs...*sigh* Too many whiny voices in my head. Is it any wonder why I'm so weird?

Excellent. It works. Rejoice.
So. What is Free Thought, exactly?
What is anything, really?
Because Free Thought is anything.
Anything and everything. I could call this BabbleBlog, and it wouldn't be that far from the truth.
But then, "truth" is such a vague term...
The things I write here could be highly offensive,
Highly derisive,
Very explicit,
and altogether weird.
This is, in essence, my soul in HTML form.
Are you scared yet?

bugger

If I say what I say
And I say what I mean
I mean that I say
Two different things
If I do what I want
And want what I do
What would you say
If I were looking at you?
I don't mean a thing
When I say what I do
I mean that I don't mean
A thing I may say
A thing I may do
Any thing at all, really.
I don't mean anything at all.
I never meant anything,
At all.

Snarkity snark snark snark- would you like some snark with that snark? I'm attempting to test, and it's makin' me snarky, can you tell?