Friday, May 31, 2002

Hmm...turning it off now. Hail and thunder so loud it echoes...marvelous, but not particularly healthy for dad's computer.
We are having a rather spectacular lightining storm right now, and I can watch it through the window right by the desk.

I rather like this view point, but I miss my mp3 player.

And my disk drive, of course.
I have developed a fondness for the Grateful Dead.

Should I just give up now, or is there still hope for me?

*sings* Truckin'....

Wednesday, May 29, 2002

Ugh...must stop reading Yu-Gi-Oh! fanfiction...because that last one just made me stupider, I'm sure of it. Why, oh why am I such a poor judge of fic summaries?
Must stop anyway...must write paper on damned historian...blaaaah.
Livy. Wrote a 142 book history of Rome. But he didn't do anything else. At all. How I'm supposed to bullshit two pages of this, I'll never know.
The things I do for extra credit. Oi.
And, just to prove that I really am a silly little clink, the moment I come into possession of a new game, I immediately go and peruse the ff.net category for it, thus spoiling it utterly for me. This is the third or fourth time I've done that. *sigh* What? Learning? Me? Of course not.
And while watching the silent movie with avid fascination, he slowly raised the bottle of non-alcoholic beer to his lips, and blew a long, mournful note that sounded throughout the house, howling above the tinny piano from the movie.

"And what's the matter with you?" he asked the cat. She voiced no reply, and the piano played on.





What Type of Villain are You?

mutedfaith.com /
<º>


That test was more fun than it had any right to be. Heh. I'm categorized with Demona. Cool. *spite*

Tuesday, May 28, 2002

*pokepoke* Er? Picture? Work, please? See, like that. You know, with the pretty colors and things. Good boy.

Fuck, this feels like withdrawl all over, minus the pain. Thank the All for small favors, eh? Last thing I need right now are shocks...

You ever have one of those days when everything seems to be running just fine, but you keep getting the feeling that everyone has really suddenly manifested a chicken on top of their head, and you just didn't notice?


Because that basically describes my day. *swatswat* Damn chickens.
I think there may be a bird's nest outside my window. Not too sure.

And it's not really my window, just like it's not my computer or my phoneline or my keyboard. My keyboard, you know, only has twenty six letters of the alphabet. Not...twenty-nine. *sigh*

But the birds were carrying worms and such, and one ould leave while the other stayed, and now they're both gone...so maybe I was wrong. It's nice having a window right here, though.

It's cloudy out. Excuse me as I bang my head against a wall; that might straighten things out a bit.

Sunday, May 26, 2002

I am fire.

I am dancing, I am singing; my fingertips light the stars aglow and my feet, the ground ablaze. My dance will catch you watching, though you tear your eyes away. I am red and I am orange, I am heat and I am light, I am kinetic, I am moving, I am blue and I am white.

You can look, but do not touch, for while I seem winsome and friendly I will burn you with unbated frenzy 'til I've eaten you away. My eyes, so blue, so bright and lovely, they hide the truth: That I am hungry, ever starving, ever feeding on all that lives and what does not. I will eat the world out from within, swallow it up from without, and still cry and crackle for more until there is nothing left but for me to eat myself. And then there will be nothing left to dance but gray black ash upon the wind, a wind that I created and forgot.

I am doomed to this but still I hunger, doomed but still I dance. I am dangerous and angry, and I will kill if given the chance. But stay away and I will feed you, in the only way I can. My light will warm and guide you and melt your loneliness away. My dance will heal the frostbite of your soul.

I am freedom, though contained, I am reckless, though held back. I'll behave though it will chafe me, until you grow careless, unafraid. Then when you are sighing, when you turn your back as I am dying, I will leap and then be free.

Do not forget; I am fire. I was here first, and while you may think you hold me chained, I will always come back. And it will be me, dancing towards the stars that are my brothers, that will dance you to ashes in the end.

I am fire. I am heat and I am light, I am movement all kinetic, I am burning blue and white.

I am
fire.
Quick bit of Boffo Babble:
Why the hell does Lucifer, of all people, insist upon being noble and tragic? He's not supposed to do that. Damn it, characters, submit to my will! *double sigh* I can't wait until I finish the damn thing...

href="http://mysite.freeserve.com/Intereo_Liberi/test3.htm"
target="_blank">src="http://mysite.freeserve.com/Intereo_Liberi/mythresult/dragon.jpg"
border="0" width="330" height="175">


I took the href="http://mysite.freeserve.com/Intereo_Liberi/test3.htm"
target="_blank">What Mythological Creature Are you?
test by
!



*teeth* Indeed. Not particularly cuddly, am I?
I want to write about a mortician. Damn you, Neil Gaiman, for writing American Gods and making me want to write about a mortician. And dead bodies. Lots and lots of dead bodies. Augh.
Ah, so. (This is the typical manner in which I begin a rather long and involved and complicated story, or at the very least something absolutely no one else on the planet could possibly find even remotely interesting.)

When I was in fifth grade, I had to read Bridge to Terabithia. We've all read this book, haven't we? If you haven't, not only do you live in a box, but you'd best peruse the children's section of your local library immediately and read it. Because I said so, naturally.

Now, I'd read the book two or three years before then (I was even more of a voracious reader when I was little than I am now. I was the girl with a book. That was my stereotype, that is what I am still known as. Some things you just never grow out of...) so I knew about the ending, which, incidentally, had been spoiled for me by my middle brother. I hadn't believed him when he told me she was going to die. I may have cried, but I don't think so. I think I was more upset with the fact that he'd been right than with the fact that my favorite character was dead. Anyway.

My fifth grade reading class had a few issues...for one thing, I had three teachers over the course of the year, for the same class. Not because the teachers kept getting sick, or dying, or retiring, but because the school had decided, in the administration's ineffable wisdom, that the fifth grade advanced reading classes couldn't possibly have only one teacher, you know, to prevent confusion and maladjustment in our impressionable little minds. For another thing, I was in the same class as my rival, which brought up many inferiority and jealously issues. Most of them still exist latently, in one form or another. Still.

So, my second teacher was a bitch. A horrible, terrible bitch whom no one liked. And we read that book, a book that I had enjoyed the many times that I had read it, but after fifth grade I couldn't read it ever again. Too traumatic. Mostly this was due to the fact that I, always a straight A student in reading and things pertaining to that, got something of a low B or nearly a C in her class. Can you blame me for hating her?

One of the assignments she gave us was to get in a group (I always have, and always will, despise group work.) of five or six people, and create a fantasy world like Terabithia. Figure out its history, its citizens, its laws, its anthem, its magic...everything. And you had to fit the members of your group in as some part of the government. I ended up working in the same group with my rival. And the world we created...

Even now, though the details have grown a bit fuzzy in my head, I'm still a little impressed with what our rather young minds came up with. There were...five of us. That I can remember. Only two of us had any interest at all in high fantasy...the other three were more or less along for the ride when we got started.

I think we pulled a lot from Narnia, now that I'm looking back on it. Without realizing, of course- originality wasn't high on our agenda. We were creating, and that was all there was to it. Our world was called Rynalkie. I'm not really sure why- and that's ri-NAL-ky. Not rine-a-lack, as one member of our group insisted upon calling it. Rynalkie, the land of gold and jewels, where no human foot had ever tread until five children from an outside world fled through the Mourning Mountains and the Labyrinth to emerge in the sunny, happy land of Rynalkie. And upon reaching Rynalkie, several of those five children ceased to be human, but we forgot to explain that...I wanted to be the Mistress of Magic, but he claimed that. So I was the Lady of Beasts. And boy-howdy, were there a lot of those. Part of the assignment was to create a creature lexicon (she didn't call it that) for your world. Our list of creatures was some three pages long, from the Master of Magic's platinum dragon (one of a kind, a gift from his dear friend and ally the Lady of Beasts) named Grezeka to the many tribes of ants. Compared to some other groups and their six different creatures, we went a little overboard. (I can't believe I remembered Grezeka's name...)

The other three group members became the Dwarven King, the Weather Master (he complained, saying he didn't want to be a weather man, until we told him that meant he made the weather, didn't just report it...), and the, uh...well, she didn't exactly rule the damn place, but she was in charge of the government. Meh. I can't remember everything, you know. I haven't actually thought about this in four or five years.

I remember that there had been a war when we arrived, and we'd all inherited our powers from something, and it was our job to stop the really really evil guy with the unpronouncable name (names were my specialty- this guy might have been Portalanthalcalkuzux, but I think that was a different project, one from computer class in third grade) using our newfound powers. You know, save the world, restore balance to everything, all that jazz.

From eagles to ants, with enemies and wells of souls and namers and all sorts of things...but our anthem sucked. We hadn't worked on the music nearly as much as we'd worked on everything else, and really, the other three group members hadn't gotten into the spirit of things quite so much as the two of us had...so our grade, if I remember correctly, was a B. Possibly a B+.

And now, I am possibly the only one who bothers to remember. I had so much fun with that project, and I was so angry to have gotten such a low grade- especially compared to the drivel some of the other groups churned out. Certainly there were a fair share of groups that were better organized than us, and there were some who had taken the project and added a bit of humor to it...but then there were the groups (composed mostly of giggling girls) that made pink and fluffy worlds populated by horses who were being oppressed by the Icky Vegetable People. When asked how the horses could fight off these icky veggies, they blinked vapidly and looked clueless, while we were marked down for "not enough detail".

From eagles to ants...*shakes head* It's not so much that I was angry, actually- I was upset. He was angry, and perhaps that anger was contagious. It was a very long time ago, as these things go- I may sound bitter, but I'm not. I've still got Rynalkie in my head, you see, with my mountain where the dragons live and the eagles roost, and the Labyrinth that keeps strangers out, and the Palace from which we all could rule...But very few of the ideas were mine. Again, as always, originality has never been my strong suit. That, more than anything else, and really as the only thing, is what I am bitter about.

Oh, did I mention that I was a person who lived in the past? I should have warned you; it's one of my many faults. The future's too uncertain, so I'll reminisce and remember until someone smacks me upside the head and points out the eighteen-wheeler barelling down the road towards me.

*shrug* This was pointless. I'm surprised I remember so much. "Rine-a-lack, Rine-a-lack, rah rah rah!"




Is that not the absolute cutest thing you've ever seen? Don't argue with me. You know it is.
Huh. I'm on the stupid Scandinavian keyboard, and I spell my member name with a j when i'm logging in.
For those who don't know, spelling "shateiel" as "sjateiel" would pronounce to the same thing, if you were speaking Swedish. But the keyboard is Norwegian. And the Norwegians, for the most part, hate the Swedes. ("And this is where the Swedes ransacked the castle, burned our tapestries, and stole the spoons..." "(You'd think they'd have gotten over the spoons...)" "(Yeah, but it was only five hundred years ago- these things take time.)" "(Oh. I see. Time. Riiiight.)")

Maybe the stupid keyboard is having an identity crisis? Or maybe I just notice too many coincidences.
Nah. That couldn't be it.

Monday, May 20, 2002

Oh, by the way, I'm making cookies again. Real ones, not metaphorical ones, even. (The sad, sad story of my life...)

And no, they're not for you. I'm not sure who they're for, but sadly, you aren't getting any. Whomever you may be- no cookie for you!
Okay, so I, like nearly every other bouncing fangirl on the web, have toyed with the idea of an otaku (fan-made) senshi team. Yes, I'm talking about Sailor Moon, and yes, I freely admit this. I am not ashamed. (much.) For a while they were really, really popular, and some were well done while others were...armies of clones. Kinda scary, since they wore short skirts and not storm trooper uniforms. But anyway.

My otaku senshi ideas all usually had really obscure, or really weird themes. Like the Hell Senshi; this was actually one of my ideas that I really liked, but I never wrote anything for them. Sailor Elysium, Sailor Tartarus, Sailor Asphodel (toldya I could be obscure), Sailor Gehenna, Sailor Nifleheim, and one other whose name I can't remember right now. And this particular team had a story; the three Greco-Roman based senshi (Elysium, Tartarus, and Asphodel) were really powerful, but they were the three teenage girl main characters who didn't know about their powers. (Typical, now hush.) The Senshi whose name I can't remember was the leader of the evil Hell senshi (technically all six of them were meant to be a team, but one half was clueless and the other half was Up to No Good and stuff...), and she awakened the latent powers within the three girls (Elly, Tara, and Delilah. Never claimed to be original, or creative.) and blew stuff up. A lot of stuff got blown up in this story, as I remember.

It didn't make much sense (still doesn't), and I couldn't figure out a motive for the evil half of the team, so I never actually wrote anything. I drew the main characters, though (they were my first attempts at drawing using an actual tutorial to help me- there's a huge marked difference between my pictures of the three Hell Senshi and everything else I'd drawn before them. It's kinda neat, actually...), and they had really funky color schemes and crazy fuku designs. Like, black with lots of stripes, and hair styles that could rival the Great Pyramids in the monumental task of their building.

This had no point, naturally. Maybe I'll tell you about some of my other Sailor Senshi ideas...(and there were a lot of them...like, eight. At least. With histories and enemies and love interests and everything. Including a Sailor Earth and Sailor Sun, because really now, who doesn't do one of them?)

Which Koi Variety Are You?
You'll probably love fallenlights.net.
Which Koi Variety Are You?



Gee. *blush*
Heh. Take that, you psuedo-intellectualist people who think you know Japanese! Yes, you! (I'd be your goldfish any day, baby.)
"So, what should we do with this?" She turns the little plastic wrapped, semi-amorphous blob over in her hands.

I give it a wary look, half expecting it to leap out of its shield of plastic and start gnawing on my computer. "Dunno."

"Maybe...we could keep it? Build a shrine to it? As a memento from the south, or something."

"Worship it as a tool of evil?"

"Maybe. Hey, how long do you think it'll take before it turns green?"

We both stare at the Fresh Snak Honey Cake that had mysteriously appeared on the countertop two days ago for a moment. I narrow my eyes and tilt my head to the side. "In this house? I give it two days, tops."

She places it back on the counter top, and backs away.

Sunday, May 19, 2002

I lament my spastic factor. *sigh*

And my computer now thinks it's 2047. I'd change it, but it amuses me too much.
"Ooh, come quick! Campy 70's music! Listen to it! So...terrible!"

It's one in the morning. Do you have any idea where your morals are?


What kind of egg are you?



BWA! Beware, lest I give thee salmonella!
...I guess I really am that lazy...*sweatdrop*

You Are A Changeling
Take the World of Darkness Quiz
by David J Rust



But...that implies that I can fit in anywhere...Hmm...





You hear that? Don't abuse me- I BURN!! That's right, dahlings, I'll burn you if you try and get to close. >:)

Saturday, May 18, 2002

Perhaps I should change the name of this thing...
Nah. I'll just say this:

It can only happen in reality. Nobody's screwed up enough to make this stuff up.

Oh, yeah, just thought I'd warn y'all; there are going to be a lot of very pointless and aimless posts tonight. I've had a fantabulistic weekend. Truly. Absolutely spiff. And I've been making cookies. Because I'm always making cookies. Even when I'm not, I'm really making cookies. I'm making cookies right now, in fact, you just can't see me.

And metaphorical cookies are still cookies, goshdarnit. Don't argue with me.
I'm never eating at Dunkin' Donuts again.

Did you know that in one munchkin, just one, there are three grams of fat?
And the "reduced fat" blueberry muffin has 16 grams of fat? Reduced from twenty something, you see.

I'm not even going to tell you the fat and calorie count of the sausage sandwiches...you'd have a coronary, right there at your computer screen, you would. Get up and go for a walk, why don't you? Raise that heart rate! Sheesh, even I've been walking all day. Running, more like, what with my erstwhile brother's legs being so damned long.

"Psst, you're short."
(This is me rolling my eyes again, because if I had a nickel every time he said that to me, I'd have a crap load of nickels.)
"And guess what- you're getting shorter!"

Oh, horrors.
As I was discussing with Kristen a few days ago, in Episode II, you get a two for one deal; Hayden Christiansen (eh, I spelled that wrong...) and Ewan McGregor. That's two for one! But alas, not more than two. Unless (and this was her idea, notnotnotnot mine...) of course, you add Yoda.

Now, at the time, I considered this to be an idea worthy of a thwapping, and I squawked loudly over it. But now that I've seen the movie, and now that I've seen that last lightsaber battle (not to spoil any thing, but...so. shiny. *drroooool*)...
Well, actually, I was bloghopping and saw someone comment that Yoda was sexy, and it reminded me of this. Because not all of my associations are random! They're just pseudo-random.

Oh, look, it's Tom Cruise. Coming out of the wall. Look out! (The Minority Report previews made me googley eyed. *drool* But that's not why I said that. It's pseudorandom, you know.)
There was this woman on the train, you see, talking to two of her friends (I am a shameless eavesdropper and people watcher. I KNOW NO SHAME!!) about how she'd been traumatized by birds early in life. Swans, in particular. She'd been feeding them. And she ran out of bread crumbs. And they attacked her. Because she had no bread crumbs. Her parents had to beat the swans off her. No bread crumbs, you see. Such a sad, tragic story. Would that all small children had bread crumbs. But alas, they do not.

...

Sh, I can hear my brain ticking. It's going to explode in a few minutes. (S'true about the lady on the train and the bird trauma. She used longer sentences, though.)

...Boom.
Y'know what? I really, really love NYC. Love it good. Which is exactly why I refuse to wear anything proclaiming that fact.
My logic is not meant to be understood by the rest of you.

"You wanna be left in the city? Because I'll just leave you there if you keep that up."
"Empty threats. I have money and I have my train ticket."
"Do you? Have you checked your pockets recently?"
"..." (this would be me rolling my eyes)
"Oh yeah, what's this?"
"That would be your ticket."
"And then...what's this?"
"That would also be your ticket."
"Shh."
Well, actually B, I've always thought of Jubal as doing the whole western thing (I've no idea why, mind you, but I just think he'd look good in a cowboy hat)...But now I keep on hearing Dei's voice as having a south-western drawl, and it's making me giggle hysterically. Not that this is terribly different from my normal state of being, but you've made it worse. :)

"Y'all better watch out, Ah'm armed an' dangerous, an' Ah'm real teed off. An' if'n somebody else gets to feelin' like killin' me, Ah'm gonna open up a can o' whoopass."

*dies*

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

There's something about Gundam Wing fanfiction that's horribly, terribly addictive. Wufei in particular- he's just so damn much fun. Everyone else can be crying or whining or screaming their heads off, and he'll just sit there and mutter about "a lack of decent justice".

In the manga at one point he goes buck and starts screaming "I AM JUSTICE!! I AM INVINCIBLE!!" Come on now, how much does that line kick ass? I wish I had lines like that, but my celestial script writer is on crack. The bad crack, mind you, not the good stuff. *sigh* I should start a collection: "Support the crack-ridden celestial script writers" or somethin' like that.

But until then...*puts Wufei in the box under the bed* There. All is well with the world. It must be getting pretty crowded in that box, though...maybe I should poke a few airholes? Nah...they don't need to breathe.
There are two ways to solve any problem known to man: apply either a boot to the head, or a cookie. Satisfaction guarenteed.

(Please note that I did not say where to apply the cookie. Any misfortunate incidents arising from the improper application of a cookie are entirely your own fault. That is all.)
Okay, so maybe I wouldn't make a very good Jesus, but what do y'all think about me as Satan? You know, Vera the Deceiver, Mother of Lies and all that?

...Okay, you're right, I would suck at that. Because I'd give chocolate chip cookies to the damned and what kind of hell has chocolate cookies in it? And I really can't stand lying. It gives me indigestion.

Guess I'm just not cut out for the divine...

(Isn't it amazing how I can blog about something near on a month ago (if not longer) and then return to it as though it were yesterday? Gee, somebody needs a new hobby...)
Miserabubble.
Not a wretched bubble, just a really unhappy one.

Today's word of the day, by the way, is not jocularity. Nor is it nygaayaa. It is floop. Floop.

Because, really, haven't we all just felt like a floop at one point or another?
*kicks stupid story* Once it's finished, I'm burning it. I swear, I am. Beloved, six eyed, mutant child or no, I'm going to burn it. I'll print out a copy of it, all 50000+ words of it, and burn it. Damned birds and feathers and angels and demons and contrieved plot devices and typed versions that resemble my original like an amoeba resembles Mik Jagger. *kicks stupid story again*

I'm sorry, I'm just working on chapter 12...and it's doing its damndest to piss me off. *sigh*
You are very much in touch with your inner child. You enjoy puppies, kitties, mommy, daddy, and candy. You listen to children's radio a lot. You may even host a show of your own. Now, quick, get off the Internet before mom sees that you've been taking this test!

You like death. You like death a lot. You obsess over killing yourself. You think about that practically every day. No, actually, every hour of every day. Why don't you do the rest of us a favor and actually DO IT, you stupid freak?

You like dark, cramped spaces, computers, and caffeine. Especially caffeine. Caffeine good. Need caffeine. You have caffeine, human? GIVE IT TO ME!!!!!

Look, a monkey!

Nat's Color Picker Test

*blinkblink* Oookay....*bursts out laughing*
What, didn't I tell you I was a bundle of contradictions? I don't like caffeine, though. Don't need it to be wired. But the monkey part's true. Naturally.

Sunday, May 12, 2002

It seems to me that drunk people are really no fun at all unless you yourself are drunk as well. And that's even less fun, really.

When making a martini, a "shaken" martini is mixed with crushed ice, so it gets diluted as it chills because the crushed ice melts faster. "Stirred" means it's mixed with ice cubes and a stirring stick to chill it, which means that the alcohol isn't as dilute. So a stirred martini is stronger than a shaken one.

So, in otherwords, James Bond is a weenie. But I don't think he could handle one of Kev's martinis shaken or stirred; that stuff's nasty, no two ways about it.

Other tidbits of alcoholic information: Everclear is grain alcohol, 190 proof. That means it's got a five percent difference in concentration compared to methanol, the stuff that'll kill you if you drink it. Why Kev has two bottles of the stuff may seem a tad bit odd until you realize that he uses it to make saffron liqueur after cutting it with spring water from 95% alcohol to a mere, piffling 30% alcohol, nearly the equivalent of a good bottle of rum.

Why he became an engineer and not a bartender, I will never know.

I also wanna know why I could get away with drinking champagne but not strawberry daquerries. Sh, I know I'm underage and I don't even like alcohol; it was a special occasion. S'not like I spiked the drink mix with the everclear or anything, but from the way they carried on you'd think I had. *snort* Like I said, I don't even like alcohol. Naturally, expressing this sentiment would lead all members of my family to believe that I had been adopted.

Saturday, May 11, 2002



Which Alan Rickman Character Are You?



Not a word from any of you. Not one word. *glare*

I suppose you all know how happy and excited I was to find this particular quiz, along with links to a plethora of Alan Rickman fansites...I'm a dork. But damn, I'm keeping that man in a box under my bed. I still don't want to hear any comments from the lot of you, though.
See, that one actually was verbatim. I couldn't come up with anything like that on my own. Most of my quotey things aren't; reality is rarely as interesting as what goes on in my head, and even then it's only interesting to me- but I just had to share that one. Of course I'm not telling who said it. That would ruin all the fun, wouldn't it?

(Lesbian jumping beans? I still can't quite figure that one out...0_0)
;)
"You're clever enough to ferment meat without the use of oxygen, ya know, and your hands do the work of 10,000 highly trained lesbian jumping beans."

*blink* ... *sniff*
Wow. I think those're two of the best compliments I've ever gotten. This is why, even though I complain about them constantly and at times claim to despise each and every one of them , I really do love my friends. Because damn, that's creative. Lesbian jumping beans?

Bwa! I shall ferment you, even though there be no oxygen in the room! *fwoosh!* Amazing Sparkle Heart Fermentation Blast!
*coughcough* Uh, yeah. Cheap hotel, shiny laptop, weekend with Kev, cartoon network. We all know what that means, don't we?

Tuesday, May 07, 2002

What goes up must come down
Spinnin' wheel got to go 'round
Talkin' 'bout your troubles it's a cryin' sin
Ride a painted pony let the spinnin' wheel spin

You got no money and you got no home
Spinnin' wheel all alone
Talkin' 'bout your troubles and you never learn
Ride a painted pony let the spinnin' wheel turn

Did you find the directing sign on the
Straight and narrow highway
Would you mind a reflecting sign
Just let it shine within your mind
And show you the colors that are real

Someone is waiting just for you
Spinnin' wheel, spinnin' true
Drop all your troubles by the riverside
[1: Catch a painted pony on the spinning wheel ride]
[2: Ride a painted pony let the spinning wheel fly]
-Blood Sweat and Tears

As always, the source of my fascination with some songs is lost even upon myself...but come on, it's got that silly clown melody in it! How can you not love it?
Hey now, if you can't laugh at yourself, who else do you have the right to laugh at? People with dignity are all well and good, but eventually that dignity's gonna crack. Me, I just save myself the trouble and don't bother with those things. It's easier that way, and hella more fun.
"I can see myself five years from now behind the counter of a Kwik-Chek."
"Nah, that's not the life for me. I can see myself at a Wawa, maybe."
"I can see myself CEO of major company firing all you asses!"
"...I can see myself in a mirror."

(Not verbatim, as always...but it's the little, semi-profound things that they say that make you smile.)

Monday, May 06, 2002

I promise you I'm not a crackwhore. I just sound like one sometimes. ;)
peanut gallery: Sometimes?
Aw, shaddap.
So, uh...happy day? I've got "Do You Love" stuck in my head...it's been there for a day or so. Definitely one of the songs that I like better on White Lily whatchamacallits (Because I was looking at the cover not all of three hours ago and I ought to remember but I can't 'cuz I'm stupid...) but it's a little repetitive and way too easy to sing. 'S the song I quoted in the title bar...I like Natalie Imbruglia, so hushup.

Since I've been feeling particularly evil lately, I may write that thrice bedamned scene from Dreamscape that nobody has any idea what I'm talking about...you know, I do occasionally forget that the rest of the world can't actually read my mind. Things'd be a helluva lot simpler if y'all could, you know. I wouldn't have to actually speak then...

But the scene that I'm thinking of involves Quinn, Leo, a dark alley, and me trying to find as many euphemisms and synonyms for 'lick' as possible.

*cough* Only it really isn't. But it could be, you know? I told you I was feeling evil...(And since there's no romance in the scene whatsoever, just panic and desperation and a great deal of acting in Quinn's part, I shouldn't have too much trouble actually writing it. It should be illegal, having this much fun with my characters.)
I love Alan Rickman. Watching "Blow Dry" right now; British hair stylist competition. Alan Rickman as a hair stylist. Gah, I love the man. Whee. And Brits are all just completely insane. Wonderful stuff, just wonderful stuff. *happy sigh*
"Tommorrow."

The voice startled him; he'd been too busy wallowing in self pity and abject misery to notice anyone sneaking up on him. He put down the beaten and weathered book he'd been flipping through and turned around.

Standing beside him was a memory, a ghost right out of that same past that the book had come from. "Paige?" He cursed his voice for cracking at a time like this. How long had it been? Nine years? Ten? A hundred, or maybe a thousand? That had been a lifetime ago, and then some. But there she was, ageless as ever, with her inhuman pale eyes and her long, silvered-blue hair. Templar's eyes travelled involuntarily to her neck and wrists; the cuffs were gone. The dress was, too; she was clad in an ordinary enough set of riding leathers. A snowy Ikatai mare stood patiently on the side of the road; his horse-breeder upbringing resurfaced for a moment, no longer, and he repressed a sigh of longing and appreciation. "Paige, is it really..."

She smiled, gently, with the same innocence she'd always had. He felt as though someone had just stabbed him through the chest. "Tomorrow," she repeated firmly.

"I'm sorry?" He was at a loss. How could she smile like that after what he'd done to her, all those years ago? He'd taken her innocence, taken the very thing that made her who she was- how could she still be alive after all these years?

"Tommorrow. It's my name." She was still smiling.

"Y-you mean you're not Paige?" He was gaping like a fish, and he knew it. "Do you know who I am?"

Her smile didn't waver. "My name is Tommorrow. It was because of my mother, you see. When I was born, she wouldn't look at me, and whenever my caretakers asked her if she wanted to see me, to hold me, or give me a name, she'd just moan 'tommorrow, tommorrow'. After a while they got tired of asking, and the name stuck." She stuck out her hand, frankly, recalling the movements of the woman who had to have been her mother. "You must be Templar Invidens." But if this was Paige's daughter...

That would make her his, as well.

He warily took her hand, unsurprised to feel the same electric thrill run through him at her touch that he'd felt when he'd first seen Paige. "Yeah. Yeah, that's me. Templar. Paige- I mean, everybody calls me Tem. Just- just Tem." They shook hands, with enthusaism on her part and shock on his.

She looked curiously at his hand, which hadn't let go of hers. Guilty, he dropped her fingers. She was still smiling. "Tem...I like that. My mother calls me 'Morrow, but everyone else calls me Tom." Her gaze was measuring. "You can call me Morrow, if you'd like."

"Your father? What- who-" Confusion swamped him. "How long has it been? How old are you?"

"My foster parents. My mother died not long after I was born, or so I was told." She shrugged. "My foster mother's name is Raeska DeLavrey. We live on the other side of the forest. We own the Old Library- it's an inn."

Raeska. That explained a lot. That explained too much...But surely, after a thousand years, he could be forgiven? Whoever this girl was, with Paige's face and mannerisms, he had to know. He had to know what happened. "Do you think you could show me the way there, Tommorrow?"

"Why not go right now?" The laughter that danced in her eyes mocked him. But it was a gentle mockery, a relaxed and comfortable one, as though they'd been telling each other the same old jokes for the past thirty years.

She lead him to the Ikatai. He had no belongings other than the book- her book. Her blank paged book that had all the secrets of life hidden in it. She introduced him to the horse. "This is Shevral. Shevral, say hello to Tem."

The horse didn't recognize him, though he recognized the name. It was difficult to fight back tears; how long had it been since he and Shevral had ridden together? Years and years, but his sword was broken a thousand times over and left in pieces beneath a rock in the rain. "She's beautiful. How'd you get her?"

"Mother has connections." Again her colorless eyes danced with laughter; once a horsethief, always a horsethief, as the saying went. Raeska went a long way to proving that statement true. "Are you ready?"

He met her eyes and remembered a dusty library full of empty books, and a sunset overlooking a forest much like this one. "I've been ready all my life."

This was his second chance; he wasn't going to waste it. She climbed into the saddle with an awkwardness that no amount of practice had ever been able to cure; he pulled himself up after her with long-forgotten ease and tucked her book into his coat. Maybe he could get Raeska to reforge a certain saber for him...

But then again, he would probably never need it again.
------------------------------------------------

I think I've decided to go with the depressing story for Paige- one of my muses, keeper of the books and personification of innocence. Templar's originally a nice guy, if a little...loose about his morals. But, uh...Stuff Happens, and Paige loses her innocence, and Templar gets seriously screwed over by life in general. Stuff works out in the end, though...they do find each other again, so uh...happy day?

Sunday, May 05, 2002






find your element
at mutedfaith.com.
<º>


Do. Not. Touch. Me.
Oh, hey, I've been arting lately, and I might actually, y'know, finish stuff. *whaps forehead* I'm such a slug. See the slime? *wiggles eyestalks* But wait- if I'm a slug, how am I typing? Slugs don't have hands!

Oh, right. I'm just a very talented slug. I forgot.
*slurpslitherslip*
As always, family gatherings tend to lead to the adults making fun of my brother. The crazy one. No, the other crazy one. Then they start talking about getting the original crazy one a shotgun, and it all goes downhill from there.

"An amateru con-artist just can't stand up against an expert, right?"
"Like I said, I invented that excuse."

My uncle, who buys and sells banks for a living but really only plays golf and fishes, kicks ass.
"But I don't understand why we had to keep blessing ourselves!"
"Because you say "Jesus Christ has risen" and then you've got to bless yourself."
"Look, by the time you get out of there, you're holy! How else are you supposed to feel holy? It's not like in his church where it's 'Hello, amen, good-bye' zip bang! you're done- when you get out of there, you're holy, and it lasts!"

*giggle* My mom on the Russian Orthodox church, as opposed to Roman Catholic. One thing about RC is that you don't have to stand up for two hours...but an RO service sounds like fun. They gave out Easter Eggs. St Matthias never gave out Easter Eggs. But St Peter's did a May Crowning, and believe you me that's pretty damn cool. (Who's gonna major in religion when she gets to college? What was that? Who?)

Saturday, May 04, 2002

Well, no, that's not all. That could never be all.
After the last play at McCarter sending me into a spiral of unhappiness and shivery terror at the state of things in general, this one made up for all of the terrible implications of the last one. Of course, had we all been living in the seventeenth century, I'm sure it would've had the same spine chilling effect as Humpty Dumpty. But we're not living in 1683, and the king of France is not going to censor us. (Long live the king)

Just- wow. Moliere came after Shakespeare, and since he was French, his stuff had to be translated...and that's probably why the dialogue made a bit more sense and didn't grate upon the ears so much as Shakespeare sometimes does. Not to disparage the Bard or anything- but four centuries do a lot to a language.

Beautiful sets, naturally. They were made of curtains, but that's to be expected in a play with so many scene changes. The beach scene had moving waves, though, and the walk through the forest...oh, god. I *died*, I was laughing so hard. They installed a treadmill in the stage and they just walked along...and skipped and twirled and Sganarelle was just- ah! Too funny to describe.

The acting was incredible, from Don Juan's careless intellectualism and courting to Sganarelle's attitude and groveling. (And he groveled so prettily, too..."No, I am not speaking to you, I am speaking to him! Now look at me when I'm speaking to you, you miserable termite of a man!")

The costumes were better than incredible, they were indescribable, and they were very accurate to the time period. Six layers if he wore a scarf, I swear. And we got to watch Don Juan get dressed. (He stripped down to his undergarments (also accurate period pieces) and got dressed again, giving us, the audience, a very nice view of him shirtless. Mmm.)

Well, you know how it goes- long live the king, and all that. The final scene was beautiful- madness and love and enraged bitterness...yum. And cross dressing. Gotta love the cross dressing. (I told you it was accurate to the time period, didn't I?)
Guess what? Play at McCarter last night. You know what that means...Well, maybe you don't.
But.
Moliere. Don Juan. Oh. My. God. *dies*
"Wait, master! No!!! My WAGES!!!!"

I *heart* Sganarelle. I'm putting him in a box.
That is all.


Which They Might Be Giants album are you?



(Good thing that's the only TMBG album I actually *own*...I might be confused, otherwise. Sorry, more confused.)





Which Jhonen Vaquez character are you? By EmReznor.


That's the guy who created Zim, dahlings. Booya. (But they're cancelling it! I *WEEP*!)