Dysis is my character match from The Saga of Moon & Sun .
Find you your match.

I find it amusing that I got this on my first try. And I still really like him, but I don't know if he's still my favorite. I've become very fond of Cleran, now, and also of Jall...and Ilyan, naturally. Because he's a sexy bitch, of course. I just feel so very sorry for Dysis...you know, it's that urge to pat people on the head...

Today we don't know who we are
Ashamed, hiding behind the scars
Too many times we let the things-
we feel
Get in the way of letting us heal-
the wounds
That open in the dark


Did you ever feel sunlight on your face
Did you ever taste clouds
Did you ever touch space
Did you ever feel sunlight on your face
Did you ever truly live


So walk, in time to life's refrain
Relax, don't do it to yourself again
Decaying yourself with all the love
you won't give
Killing yourself about the way you-
don't live now
Cause you're not gonna live forever


Did you ever feel sunlight on your face
Did you ever taste clouds
Did you ever touch space
Did you ever feel sunlight on your face
Did you ever truly live


Did you ever feel sunlight on your face
Did you ever breathe hope
Did you ever dance with grace
Did you ever feel sunlight on your face
Did you ever truly live

-Sunlight, Natalie Imbruglia

Ass kicking song, truth.

I couldn't help it; it amuses me too much. Now you all know who I really am.

-VERA is a new center for accelerator mass spectrometry (AMS) at the University
of Vienna.
-Vera is versatile - it can be taken as a drink or applied to the skin. (...)
-Vera is a small solo craft of light weight. (vrrrrooom!)
-Vera is a clonal stem cell disorder characterized by excessive
erythrocyte production. (eeew)
-Vera is native to North Africa but now can be found almost worldwide. (Aren't you excited?)
-VERA is being integrated with Synopsys' broad suite of functional verification
products and services to provide the best point tool for testbench automation
-Vera is de regie kwijt. (Oh, yeah, baby.)
-Vera is seeking a smart, flexible, enthusiastic person with excellent people skills. (No, this doesn't mean you.)
-Vera is unique and fascinating - she is definitely one of a kind. (Why yes, thank you.)

Heh. Vera is also Vladimir Nabokov's wife. How coo' is that? Wow, that was amusing.

Arg. It seems that most of the sites I like to see were made for 600x800 monitors. These funky PCs have high resolutions; they've got flatscreens like dad's space unit. Which means that everything's tiny. I don't like tiny, not in pictures, anyway. Meep. *squints* I can't read the text on this comic! Blaaaah.

The Big U. Neal Stephenson. READ IT.

Most especially all ye college outbounder types. If you thought your dorm was bad...wow. As with all of his stuff, it was incredible, but it rather struck a note, seein' as I'm livin' in a dorm right now. Nothing nearly as traumatic as the Plex (no mutated rats or Crotobaltislavonians, and no Big Wheel) but there do seem to be some people here rather reminiscent of the Airheads.

Oh, and I wrote a poem about hipbones today. Maybe I'll let y'all read it. Maybe I won't. (I bought an anatomy book. I'm surrounded by hyper, horny teenaged girls. I've got groins on the mind. *shrug*)

"My fortune cookie said 'You will chase after many hot guys today'"
"But you didn't get a fortune cookie!"
"That's what you think..."

And we have all decided to change our middle names to Thong. Ain't camp life grand?

Arthur had his table
Round and smooth-egg-shaped
His sword, a legend and a gift
From a Lady of the Lake

This is no Camelot
Though the scenery's quite medieval
And there is no Excalibur
To be lobbed by lily white hands

Instead, we've our own legends
And mythical women of wisdom and grace
See, there on the horizon
Oh, how shining is her face!

The Lady of the Lip Gloss
Her lips clad in the purest shimmering
petroleum product
Cometh this way

See, her measured, easy step
The confidence she carries
The words she writes,
so circumspect; We sigh

Such a wondrous being cannot be real
But there she is
The glare from her lips
In this hot summer clime,
Where all are sweaty and uncouth
For who cares about appearances here?
She does, and the glow
is shiny enough to blind

I think it's a little interesting that even though I know my friends (a few of them, anyway) read this, I still don't censor it much. I say much, because there are a few things about this place that I'd love to go into detail on, but I'm not in the mood for betrayed and hurtful looks.

Or cold shoulders. Hate those. They make me cry.

So, you know, if you haven't figured out a few things about me by now...don't act surprised if I ever decide to tell any of y'all. *sigh* I'm feeling all defensive lately.

Ehhru? 0_0 scary thunder...

"Okay, we're all here, we all have issues."

Goddess above, that is so true...

The thing about fanfiction.net, is that perserverence usually wins in the end.

It just takes a fucking long time.

aw, never mind.

Heh, a rather disturbing thing has happened. I suppose it was bound to happen, stuck as I am in an all girl environment. I'm just a little surprised. Can you guess what it it?

hmm...hello?

"Are you sure you can handle guys humping?"
"Yeah! I'm a big girl! Hit me with it! ...Not literally!"

*cough* Uh...so I just came out as a slash fan in the computer lab. And now we're discussing the femininity of Orlando Bloom's face. (Didja all see the film clip where he grabs Viggo from behind, kisses him, and calls him 'human scum'? Say it with me now: AWWWW!!!!)

But now they're all gone, though I think Rashida is having a hysteric fit.

I don't think I'm getting any work done today.

But, damn, that was funny.

Hey, slash fanatics abound at all girl writing camps. Who'd a thunk it?

Fucking ff.net has to be bitchy right now, though. Suckage, eh? Keenspace, too. I wanna show my new gigglepal Boy Meets Boy. I think she'd appreciate it.

Hey, how come all the posters on the walls are Mac ads? Hmm...

Fork, I've only got an hour and a half to make this thing make sense! Oi!
(Fortunately, my steadfastness yesterday has put me ahead of everyone else, paper writing wise. I've got 666 words; only a hundred left to go!)

Yeah, nights are the worst, but only because I'm too stupid and too shy to step out of my room and the cloud of painful loneliness I surround myself in. I'm fine now- this paper doesn't seem that horrible, and dinner is becoming nothing more than a bad memory.

I'll find a place here, I think. I've got three weeks to do it, and no matter what anyone says, from this perspective, three weeks is a really long time.

"Hey, Vera, I think someone just called your name!"
"Really? No, I think they were calling 'Rashida', because you know our names sound so much alike!"

"I keep most of my promises; like the one I made to my friends to bring back the heads of all my camp mates when I left this place..."
"Twenty nine heads? Where would you keep them?"
"That's for me to know and your head to find out."

"It's like chicken soup for the Bryn Mawr soul!"

There. I'm already posting funny quotes. Maybe I'll get the courage to write them on the quote board down the hall (it really blows having an out-of-the-way room sometimes) someday.

As always, feel free to pat me on the head. I still want chocolate.

Here I am breaking promises again; it rained today, all over everything. My shirt got soaked, my shoes did too. It felt wonderful, with the pavement all warm and wet beneath my bare toes.

But afterwards, when you're cold and wet and shivering with dust on your dripping feet and your hair plastered to your skull like some sewer rodent, you fail to see what was so romantic about it in the first place.

Life is kinda like that, you know?

(Pat me on the head and make me feel better, wilya? I'm in one nasty downswing right now. Oh, what I wouldn't give for some chocolate right about now...)

I could walk away, and just keep on walking...and no one would notice I was gone.

I am, for all intents and purposes, completely invisible.

What's worse is that no one would miss me.

Can you tell I'm feeling sorry for myself?
(I broke my promise; I've still got another hundred words to go.)

I'm setting a goal. I'm not going to blog anymore until I've written a page, single spaced.

And then I'm going to figure out how to work the sideways disk drive, save my crap, and go crash back in the dorm.

They're watching The Princess Bride tonight. I've got to get my work done.

Fork. This sucks so effin' much.

Oh, whatever happened to my inspiration?

You'll be hearing this a lot from me, I assure you. I came here to write things, and now I can't put a word to the word processor.

It's true, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise; they trick you into coming here.

Bitter? Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.

And it's my own damn fault- just don't blame me, if after this is over I never want to write again.

*snort* People look for the weirdest things online...and somehow end up at my blog. I guess shirtless Hayden Christiansen isn't that strange, but really now.

It's all the people who were looking for porn that got here that disturbs me, though.

I'm fucked, you know. My innate laziness and the fact that I did all of *nothing* this school year isn't going to help with the insane amount of work we've got to do.

And I'm an idiot. I've mentioned that, right?

This college is running twelve other programs here- lacross is in the dorm above us. They're noisy. And there's a sprog computer class going on behind me right now. There are a lot of sprogs running around.

I think I may stab myself in the eye with a pencil. Just for a change of pace, you know.

Just to try something different.

There's something about this computer lab that just saps your strength...and the keyboards are reeeely stubborn. Bleh. I am very, very tired, and I really, really don't want to read another 137 pages of the book we've been assigned...and I don't want to write an essay on it, either.

I want to sleep. And maybe get my appetite back. Maybe.

I won't be updating my scribble as often as I'll be here, just because this is easier, and I'll be babbling too much at other people to actually want to write it all over again for the scribble.

I so desperately want to sleep. The desire to do so just hit me; I'm exhausted. One day, and I'm already seeing stuff blearry and blurry and my nose aches.

I think I missed something, too. Because I'm an idiot. A real, tried and true, fluff for brains idiot. Wow. My head hurts.

I HAVE SURVIVED THE FIRST DAY.

Thank you. That isn't all, but it will do for now.

Proud of me, aintcha?

Oh, comment on Boffo from the writer and drawer of The Adventures of Vee-rah! the Skitz-o-teer! amused me immensely the other day.

"Why do they have six wings! What is this!? ...Wait, I get it- one pair to go up, one to land...and one to go left and right!"

You see why I love my friends? There. That's why. That still makes me laugh, e'en though she said it a week ago.

I've got to sleep now, too much energy or not. Busy day tomorrow...*dances off to bed*

Oh, and the guitar playing? Kickass. Fingerpicks and slidey things on the fingerboard and twang-yangy *plinkplink* music! Sharp as a fingerpick, that old lady was. I wish I could play the guitar like that; a fake sitar! W00t!

Iesu, though, I had fun tonight. Remember...

"Second turn past the church no matter which direction you come from...and when I say church, I mean all roads leading into and out of the church--

"It's not fucking Rome!"

"It's certainly close enough!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. The house with the lights on, right?"

"Always."

Damn, I wish I could draw actual people. I so wanted to draw Erica's outfit tonight. Screw that, I so wanted to wear that thing. *sigh* Why'd my family have to be so...American? (I wish I were Hindu...(So, how did that go again? Krishna, Rama, Buddha, Naryan...) Yes, yes, I know. Ehhru?)

I danced. A lot. Swang my hips and raised my arms, I danced because the music beat from my head to my feet and set the tips of my fingers a tingle. It was good, very good. Because there was no one to impress but myself, and no one on the dance floor but my friends, and no one to care about but me me me and the whole wide world in my heart and my soul. Everything and everyone, all in me while I danced.

And if I made a fool of myself, who's to laugh? Just me. Shake your self, wide awake; the music is on. Indian techno-dance remixes- the sort of stuff you rave to; I wanted to bounce up and down and twirl in circles. I didn't, but I danced anyway. A little subdued for public consumption. *wink*

It was much more relaxed tonight than last night, for me...better food and better company and better music. I flirted shamelessly but couldn't kiss anyone because there was someone else in the car. You've no idea how much I wanted to, though.

Just let go? Oh, sure. I can do that. But I don't want to. How could I let go of these things? He doesn't understand. I could never let go of everything. Even at my most relaxed, lying in corpse while the music sings a sweet sussurus in the background, I can't let go of this. It's too precious, too dear. My energy and my stress- those are minor side affects. I can deal with them; to be quite honest, it's more fun to be high-strung.

It's earned me quite a reputation, at any rate. *laugh*

And maybe I'll be a different person in a different place- I finally am getting away. And now I find that I don't want to leave, because things are sorting themselves out. The only question is, how will I choose?

I don't like to choose, you know. I don't want to chose. But I would have kissed someone. *shrug* Instead, I danced, and laughed, and threatened bodily injury when we got out of the car. All in good fun, of course, of course. Always in good fun.

I haven't been this happy in a while; I don't know if it's the natural upswing that follows my hormonal imbalance-induced depression or if its simply because I had a good time at the party. I don't think it matters. Honestly, I don't.

I think I'll be okay. I hope I'll be okay. I don't know that I'll be okay, because I can't let go- I don't think I ever learned how.

Maybe it's my overwhelming sentiment; we're all hopeless romantics deep down inside in my family. You can tell because we're pack rats and can't bear to throw anything away. Everything tells a story, every piece of junk and every junky memory.

It all fits together to describe who we are.

My ears are ringing; the crazy Indian techno dance remix music was louder than the ghetto dance stuff last night. (I want Erica's dress, dammit! Pretty pretty!)

Dance with me; I can't dance very well (what's that white girl with no rythym doing on the dance floor!? Somebody sit her down!) but I can be quite enthusiastic. *clapstomp*

Well, this is fun.

I'd complain here, but I've already done that enough elsewhere. I won't be disappearing, though (aren't you glad?). I'll be around. And I'll be babbling about life at an all girl's school for three weeks! Aren't you so very h a p p y ?

Yeah, well. It could be worse, you know? It can always be worse. *sigh*

Uh...about the Cara/Jance thing down there...

"Family" is a completely unknown concept to demons and angels. Most of them don't know who their parents are, and quite a few of them have spawned children with the opposite half of their parent couple. All demons refer to each other as 'cousins' and they refer to the angels as 'brothers'. (For the angels, demons are sisters; gender is another one of those oft ignored concepts.)

Of course, for second and third generations, it's a little bit different. Technically they are brother and sister, but only because they were actually born, and not spawned. (I'll define those, someday. Bear with me now, 'kay?) Genetics have nothing to do with it, and they only see each other as hated rivals for their mother and father's affection. So 'incest' is a rather harsh, and mostly incorrect term to use.

Merp. My head is swollen. *gurgling noise* I can't think straight. Le sigh.

Maybe if I stare at the screen for long enough, inspiration will sneak up behind me and smack me with a two-by-four?

Here goes hoping...

I've been neglecting this thing; people are over for dinner, and I'm trying not to gouge my eyes out. :)

I am so high, I can hear heaven
I am so high, I can hear heaven
Whoa, but heaven...no, heaven don't hear me

And they say
That a hero could save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles
Watch as we all fly away

Someone told me
Love would all save us
But, how can that be
Look what love gave us

A world full of killing
And blood spilling
That world never came

And they say
That a hero could save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles
Watch as we all fly away

Now that the world isn't ending
It's love that I'm sending to you
It isn't the love of a hero
And that's why I fear it won't do

And they say
That a hero could save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles
Watch as we all fly away

[Repeat 3x]
And they're watching us
They're watching us
As we all fly away
-Hero

See, now this song does the same thing to me that Bent did two summers ago- I get all euphoric and glassy eyed when I hear it. Good stuff.

The door slammed with enough force to knock it off its hinges; Cara ignored it. It wasn't the first time she'd broken the damn thing, anyway. Jance ignored it too, though it had been slammed in his face. He walked through it, rearranging molecules and shifting into separate realities as necessary.

"Do that again," he said, fury scrawled across his features, "and I'll kill you." His eyes had gone black with rage. "I swear I will."

She smiled sweetly and tossed her pale ponytail over her shoulder, knowing he would stare at it as it swung back and forth. He was easy to manipulate, easy to control; these were lessons she'd learned from her mother when she was barely half a day old. "Go ahead, you asinine shit. It would entertain me for hours to see you try."

"Snide little bitch!" His stride was long; he crossed the room in a moment and stood eye to eye with her. "Bluff all you want, but in the end the only one he would miss is me."

She slapped him; he didn't even blink. "You think you're worth more to him than I am? You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me."

"I hate you." He narrowed his eyes and pushed her back towards the wall. "I hate you." He placed his palms on either side of her face; his fingers were cool against her cheekbones. His voice dropped to a whisper of venom in her ear. "I hate you."

And then he kissed her, savagely, but she responded in kind, biting down on his lip hard enough to taste wine flavored blood on her tongue. They broke apart, gasping and glaring, with blood seeping out of the corners of their mouths. "One of these days," he growled, winding his fingers through her hair, "I'm going to kill you." He yanked, exposing the long dark curve of her neck.

"Keep talking, brat." She made a noise that was something between a hiss and a moan as he trailed kisses and bites down her neck. "You might convince yourself one of these days." Her nails clawed bloody welts across his face.

Jance growled low in the back of his throat and grabbed her wrists. "One of these days I'll make you shut up..." He pinned her against the wall, blood seeping from the scratches across his forehead.

She spat in his face; it was a challenge. It always was. Her clothes dissolved beneath his hands, leaving bleeding gashes on her dusky skin. Cara controlled her expression carefully, ignoring the pain. It wouldn't do to have him see her smile.

----------------

'Kay, that sucked. But you get the point, I hope. Cara and Jance don't have a typical brother-sister relationship...but then, they aren't exactly a typical brother-sister pair. You know, severe violence, incest, all that good stuff. I think, somewhere beneath the hatred and jealousy, they might actually almost care about each other...but I'm not sure. It's really, really hard to tell...

Saxophone players have got to be the most obnoxious people on the planet, I swear. I'm talking alto sax players, mind you; barry and tenors usually aren't that bad, but tenors can get severely annoying at times, too.

I mean, everybody else plays the right notes, nobody else tries to show off during the fricken' warm ups, nobody else feels the need to play so damn loud...Gah.

"They pretty much cover all the social issues relevant to gamers. All three of them."

Quick note on Boffo:

Any confusion caused by plot points probably won't be solved by rereading the damn thing...mostly because it JUST DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. No, really. I'm not kidding. I'm still not sure what sort of crack I was smoking at the beginning of the story, but uh...there are holes in the plot the size of a volkswagon. Most of these are due to the fact that, when I started, I didn't ahve a clue what I was writing about. And I changed my mind about several things half way through and didn't bother to fix the continuity. Sorry, B. (Though I will redo it and make it work. Eventually. I promise. No, really, I will.)

And by the way, the fanart kicks ass. Lots of it. It's a very, very Dei-like picture. Yay, and thankyou!

So...in other words, I'm full of hot air, is that it? Well, that makes sense, I suppose. Lookit all the babble I've accumulated...

:: how jedi are you? ::

Boo-YAKA!
Thank you, thank you very much.

At one with the universe, I am. Small and green, I am. Confuse me with a Ninja Turtle, you will not. Kicking your ass, I will be.

They're girly.

What
are your characters?


Quiz made by Zarah.






*coughcough* *sweatdrop* *twiddles thumbs* OH ALL RIGHT!! I get the picture here, Iesu...but dammit! it's just too easy to make them whine! And they're so much fun to manipulate and...aw. Come on, be nice.

But, you know what? One answer changes everything, so...


They're violent.

What
are your characters?


Quiz made by Zarah.





And there you go. Girly and violent. So when they blow up the world, they cry about it afterwards.

Although if we're talking golf stories, maybe I should tell about the guy who couldn't hit it very far or very straight, and who wasn't looking when he hit the ball and hit it perfectly; two hundred yards, straight as an arrow, right onto the green, where a guy from the group ahead of him was standing tallying up his score.

Now, to be fair, the flag was up and the guy should have been off the green, but it really wasn't nice of the guy at the tee to hit him in the crotch.

Evidently they really do fall over just like they do in cartoons.

A young corporate executive decided one day, after careful deliberation, to play a game of golf. He'd read in a magazine somewhere that a person's skill in business was directly proportional to his skill at the game. Since he'd managed to climb so quickly through the corporate ladder without playing a single game of golf, he figured that he probably had a knack for it anyway. It was in his genes, or something.

He found himself paired off with an old man who confessed to having had a stroke ten years back; he was blind in one eye and he had lost some of the movement in his right arm. Still, he loved to play golf, and he went out every weekend. Our friend admitted to having never played before, but, he whispered confidentially, he knew for a fact that he had natural talent for it. The old man smiled tolerantly and patted him on the shoulder.

At the first hole, the old man teed up, claiming old age for the priviledge, and hit the ball; it went about a hundred yards, straight as the clubs he hit with. It was a beautiful shot, it just lacked power. Then the exec stepped up and took a mighty swing at the ball, determined to prove to the old man that he knew what he was doing. Now, he played football and hockey in his youth, and he was still in excellent physical condition- when he hit that little golf ball, it sailed. Nearly 250 yards if it went an inch, zooming over the turf, at a beautiful, precise 45 degree angle to the left of where he'd aimed.

The old man got in his cart and drove to where his ball was, half the distance that the exec trudged across the grass, far out of the way. He hit it again, not very far, but very straight, nearing the green. The exec stepped up to his ball and hit it again, feeling slightly embarrassed. Again, it sailed an incredible distance, this time 45 degrees to the right of where he'd aimed.

The old man pitched his ball onto the green, while the exec zig-zagged across the course, and then he putted the ball in. Par. The exec, having covered most of the hole on foot, finally, out of sheer luck, hit the ball onto the green. Ten minutes later he putted it in.

This went on at every single hole; to his credit, the young man did not lose his temper. He was very embarrassed, though, and rather confused.

The old man simply smiled and said, "Well, at least you're getting more for your money's worth." as he scored a birdie on the ninth hole.

Boffo12
And yes, I know, that's a horrible place to end a chapter.
And I also know I sound silly and pretentious. (And I can't spell. Hush.)
Uh...it's late. I'm tired. At least the colors are a little easier on the eyes. What, did you think I would actually do something interesting with the layout? Nope, sorry. I will eventually, but right now I haven't got the right pictures. And I'm a complete color blind idiot most of the time, so...be glad it doesn't blind you with ugliness, and leave it at that.

Grafitti fascinates me. No, it really does. I mean, first there's the whole mindset; you're gonna do this thing, you could get caught, and everybody's gonna see it from now until the rain washes it away. And sometimes you get names or badly scribbled bits of profanity, and occasionally you get the really weird or beautiful, just stuck on the sides of buildings or decorating overpasses and things.

On the way to Rt 18, there's a bridge over the river (Raritan? Demmed if I can remember) that had the words "I love Stacey still" on the side of it. A bridge, dozens of meters above the water, with that painted on the side. First, how did they get there, and second, does Stacey love him back? You can't see the words anymore; they've faded from the weather and the sunlight. But not far from that bridge, there's an overpass, and underneath it, right above the spot where the concrete turns to grass, there's this little man-demon, really, with a clown-white face and yellow teeth full of holes and I think, black and white striped pants. Clown shoes, too. It's been a while since I've looked at it, but it's been there for as long as I can remember, and it hasn't faded much due to its sheltered spot.

The little guy's holding a scroll with "Your Soul" at the top of it. It's a shockingly disturbing and disturbingly attractive little painting. So you have to wonder, who would paint something like that, and why would they paint it underneath an overpass where a bush slowly (ever so slowly) is trying to cover it up?

When I went to NY last, I saw this face, in red, staring out from the concrete supports for the platform on the other side of the tracks at the trainstation. It was a miserable day, but there was that face, incredibly lifelike and marvelously well done, right next to the tracks. So who checked the train schedules to make sure the enterprising artist wouldn't get run over while he painted?

It just makes you wonder, sometimes.

So, have any of those stupid pop up ads ever...popped up, with the annoying, guady, flashing colors, proudly proclaiming in 64pt arial font

"YOU'RE A LOSER!!!"

I mean, think about it. If all these people are winning cellphones and paid vacations to the Aleutian Islands, doesn't it stand to reason that someone had to lose?

Right, right, I forgot. We're all winners, right? Well, naturally. Except you. Yeah, you over there. You're a loser. The rest of us are winners, though.

(I've got a concert tonight. That should explain it all.)

uh...did I just kill all of my archives?

See, I shouldn't mess with stuff when I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Hmmm...

A few little changes, let's see how they work...and I fixed the time. East coast, honey, east coast. Much as the idea may at times appeal to me, I don't live in California. -ea. -ia. I hate that word. (And she babbles, but no one cares...not even her.)

Aw, quit yer beepin', y'bloody piece o' crap. Stoopid machine.

I love my friends. Even when they're being moodier than a thirteen year old girl who's boyfriend just dumped her for that girl, I love them.

Especially when they send me cookies. (Metaphorical cookies, of course. I'm the one who makes the real ones.)