Manga!

So, several weeks back, I treated myself to Fake vol. 7 and Saiyuki vol. 1. I figure, what the hell, may as well discuss them now, since I haven't got much else to do at this point.

It's been about a year since I bought Fake vol. 1- right when Order of the Phoenix came out. I bought them together, and I enjoyed Fake more than Harry Potter. This is not because I'm an incurable pervert and there was a lack of pretty men groping each other in Harry Potter- though that certainly didn't hurt. Volume 1 was fairly well translated and consisted of four chapters with plenty of action (not that kind, dumbasses) and character interaction. Not great literature, but it was fun and the art was gorgeous.

I kept buying the series because the art continued to be excellent and the characters continued to be entertaining- and it looked like it would deviate somewhat from the typical yaoi/shounen ai character templates. It didn't, really, but Matoh managed to avoid beating you over the head with cliches every other page. By this I mean that Ryo was more than just a weepy girl with short hair and an alleged cock- or so it seemed, occasionally.

I still like the series, but the last volume disappointed me a great deal- the first six volumes are just a build up to Dee and Ryo finally getting together, and there are some touching moments between the two of 'em...but in the end, all the character development dissolved into Dee the Sex-Crazed Seme and Ryo the Weeping Uke.

Also, volume 7 is short- only two chapters, no conclusion of the Bicky/Carol/Lai/Lass storyline, and a lot of very rushed character development. So, somewhat disappointing- but the art is still top notch (even if I'm not sure some of the things going on in those (brief) sex scenes are anatomically correct...) and the earlier volumes are worth a glance if gay cop dramas are your thing.

And you might just want to pick up volume 7 to giggle over the fact that it's sold plastic wrapped, to protect the innocent from steamy mansex. (Be warned, though- it's not all porn, if that's what you're looking for. (And I wasn't, really, no matter how much I joke.) It's not even mostly porn. There are about six pages (if that) of shots of vaguely naked people and a few panels where I'm not sure what is going on- nothing really explicit beyond that classic yaoi standard, the orgasm face, and maybe a bare ass or two.)

Moving on from the porn...Saiyuki!

The journey west never looked so good without a shirt.
XD
Anyway. I've decided, after many years of contemplation, that I adore Kazuya Minekura's art. The droopy eyes, the squared off chins, the bizarre hermaphrodites- I love it. And the manga, of course, showcases her style much better than the anime, even if the animation manages to resemble her original designs fairly well.

I like the manga better, but that's partly just because I like manga better than anime, in general. Unfortunately for my wallet, manga is something I can't stand in internet form- if it's not on paper, I want nothing to do with it. (This may be because of the dialup here at home, but I'd rather pretend to be a snob. Wait, did I say pretend?)

Volume 1 is basically the first five episodes of the anime, almost word for word. There's a bit more introduction with Sanzo and Goku at the beginning ("If I killed you, you probably wouldn't stay dead." "That's 'cuz I'm rechargeable!") and some extra footnotes on the history of the story and the various aspects of Buddha, but if you've seen the anime, you know what's going to happen.

The art is gorgeous, though- but it is a bit bizarre and can take a little getting used to. The characters still amuse me; Goku is actually less obnoxious in the manga. He's more like a person than a child template, which is a relief. All of the characters are still taken straight from stock templates, of course- the kid, the flirt, the broody one, the mysterious one- but again, you don't read manga if you're looking for high quality literature, and it's entertaining. The characters are endearing, even if they are a bit stereotypical.

Kanzeon Bosatsu freaks me out even more now that hir shirt is transparent- they don't mention the hermaphrodite thing in the anime, just as they leave out most of the incest. (And it's het incest, too- eeew. But it doesn't show up in the first volume.)

I am a shallow person who likes pretty pictures and sulky boys and large, random weapons. Saiyuki makes me happy. It might make you happy, too. :)

Books!

So, The Dark Tower. I can't really talk about the series without sounding ridiculously fangirlish- this is mostly because the description of the Dark Tower at the end of the first book sort of parallels my own quasi religious/spiritual beliefs...and I'm a dork. A huge, screaming dork.

Stephen King's The Dark Tower series is an ongoing epic saga sort of thing- you know, the world's gone to hell in a handbasket, it's up to the last gunslinger to save it, yadda yadda...It sounds like a stock sci-fi/fantasy plot.

But oh, is it ever so much more. I suppose the genre is technically sci-fi, as there are occasional robots running about. But it's much more than a bunch of gimicks and bright lights- the story takes place in a world that has "moved on"- your not-so-standard post-apocalyptic setting.

There's no telling how long the series will run- the sixth book just came out, and as far as I can tell, it's in no danger of ending any time soon. King will probably die before he finishes it, the bastard- but those are his estimates, not mine; the world of the Dark Tower sort of encompasses every world, and while I'm sure that the current main characters are all going to die at some point, it's difficult to say if they'll stay dead. One of them has already died twice...or not at all.

The first book follows Roland as he tracks the Man in Black across the desert; the Man in Black was indirectly responsible for the civil war that destroyed his homeland, and Roland, of course, runs into trouble while following him. He runs into Jake Chambers, an eleven year old boy who ends up being responsible for a remarkable amount of temporal doom (kid just won't stop dying...) and brings him along for the ride. Eventually Roland catches up to the Man in Black and gets a glimpse of the Dark Tower before the book ends. It's a good introduction to the main character and the world he's traveling in- Roland grows on you a bit like foot rot- I adore him in all in unimaginative, pragmatic, gunslinging glory. (He's a bit like Shadow in American Gods, only not as dense, not as irritating, and with a bit more personality. So really, nothing at all like Shadow, but they're the same type of character- stoic and impossible to kill.)

The second book introduces the lobstrosities (gad, I love that word) that chew off bits of Roland's hand and foot and do their damndest to get the rest of him- so Roland hops through one of the doors standing in the middle of the sand (doors, like roses, towers, and keys, tend to pop out of nowhere and lead to strange places in these books) and ends up in New York in 1989 in the body of Eddie Dean, your neighborhood crack mule. Eddie is irritating and abrasive and very, very angry, and probably a reflection of King himself in his heroin days. There's a lot of whining in the second book- it's excusable, of course; I mean, heroin withdrawl and giant lobster monsters and a crazy-as-fuck guy with a gun are enough to make even the most rational of people a bit cranky. And, of course, when Detta/Odetta/Susannah shows up and tries to kill them both, it gets to be a little bit much. The time Roland spends behind the doors is the best part of the story, in my opinion; after he brings Eddie out, it gets to be a little monotonous, since they're all fucked sideways with a spoon and about to die horrible, horrible deaths. The ending's a bit uplifting, though, and it bridges nicely into the third book.

My real problem with King is that I don't trust him. At all. Against my better judgement, I really like all of these characters- I love Roland (I dunno, I have a thing for super hero characters, and Roland's just fucked up enough to make it cool- and his past is twisty and full of vaguely chivalrous knight errant things, and I'm also something of a sucker for knights errant.) and Eddie manages to be incredibly sympathetic and human with all of his insecurities. Susannah is hardcore, almost the same way that Roland is, and is sensible where Eddie is neurotic. Jake (damn kid needs to quit it with the trains and the temporal doom) is actually interesting in a way most eleven year olds are not- but I just don't trust King to not kill them all off in one fell swoop. These books aren't happy books, and they aren't, for the most part, pleasant books- they're gritty and desperate and really, really good- and I don't trust King to not rip my heart out and feed it to the lobstrosities.

It took me forever to read The Drawing of the Three (book 2) for much the same reason that I haven't finished American Psycho; it was just that disturbing at times. The Waste Lands, with its T S Eliot quotes (Because you just can't name a book that and not quote Eliot, it'd be blasphemous or something- though I do wish he'd left out the Prufrock quotes towards the end. That was disturbing.) and swirly temporal doom and dying robots, is a bit less dark- though I don't think I'm ever going to look at trains or old houses the same way again.

Book three is my favorite so far, because I like sane Susannah and insane Roland, and all of Roland's lessons are quite nifty. Also, it was a very quick read- it took me maybe three or four hours in one sitting, possibly less. I only meant to read half of it, but then I did what I used to do with all my books and flipped to the last few pages...since the damn thing ends on a cliffhanger, I realized that I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't find out what was up with the damned train, so I just finished the whole thing. My copy of the book is the special edition one with color illustrations, which is why I'm surprised my dreams had more Harry Potter and less mutated nuclear doom than they did.

I love the way King makes little references to things- there's the Eliot and Browning, of course, and Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Lord of the Rings, ZZ Top, Oz...Crazy references. It's great. In a way, they date the books, but you can forgive that since there's so much temporal doom. (I keep using that phrase, and I apologize- it's just such a great phrase, though. Doom! Temporal doom! Temporal lobstrosity doom! *cough* Sorry. Got carried away.)

And now I need to find the fourth book, since the third ended so abruptly. Fucking cliffhangers. Whee books.

"If I can't be the most important thing in your life, then I won't be anything at all." The harsh words rang true in the shadowy silence, and he held back the sound of pain that threatened his throat until that beloved form had left the room, turned its back on him, for the very last time.

If the distant wail sounded more like a dog's howl in the night, no one noticed it but Remus, lying awake with his own misery.

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

Bad brain. No cookie. Angsty Sirius fic is not at all appropriate for someone who remains aloof from fandom, especially Harry Potter fandom. Very bad.

*le sigh* It happens, I suppose- the need to create something that will be appreciated by more than just the voices in your head. I hate writing like this, though- too much drama, too many unneccessary words. It feels appropriate for the subject, though; how else would you write Harry Potter angst, if not with long, pretentious, overly complicated sentences?

The identity of the person who just walked out shall remain a mystery until I've read through all five books again and have decided whether or not to continue. (I've been doing far too much introspection over the past week if I'm even considering writing this. Definitely need to stop thinking. I'm blaming the diet coke.)

I think I need to do music and book posts soon. Listening to Emmylou Harris will do that to a person.

Dei opened his eyes with a lazy grin, recognizing the drowsy, happy feeling associated with morphine. Ah, morphine. Sweet, sweet painkillers. Going in to work with a morphine drip would piss Tyler off even more than the cigarettes would. The thought made him giggle slightly, which made the room wobble a bit. Probably shouldn't be awake yet. They hate it when you wake up early.

He'd done that in surgery, after the car accident. Just opened his eyes and blinked over the oxygen mask while they were trying to reconstruct his ribcage. He stopped his heart then, too, just to see what would happen. It was like shouting "fire" in a crowded theatre- the surgeons practically raised a stampede. It was amusing, yes, but also noisy, so he went back to sleep.

You'd think I'd be a little less accident prone by now, really. He tilted his head slightly to the left. There was his arm, swathed in white from shoulder to wrist and immobilized in a sling. The tail ends of the pins they'd used to reattach his shoulder jutted out of the plaster.

Dei closed his eyes then, and swallowed heavily past a lump in his throat. He couldn't feel his fingers. Perhaps waking up early hadn't been the best idea; he let the morphine pull him back into unconsciousness with cold fingers.

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

Whee, switching view points. I'd wanted to do the scene where he actually meets Tristan from his pov, but he's still kind of panicky over the thought of not getting full use of his arm back. Also, morphine makes him uncoperative, the little junkie.

*pets characters* I swear, the abuse he takes...

It's a bad thing when I start wanting to write Ultima fic, yes? Something titled "The Shortest Straw," because wow, Xenka, that was compassionate of you. "Ooops, the Balance is too out of whack. Looks like someone needs to be sacrificed, and only the four of you, me, and Gwenno are candidates 'cuz we're not dead. Draw straws to see who gets to throw themselves down the crematorium. Sorry, Hero, it seems that you've drawn the shortest straw. It was nice knowing you."

Christ, I love this game, but it's driving me crazy. The way its constructed makes it almost impossible to not cheat- sometimes you get stuck, you know- on top of a pillar or behind a tree- and the only way you can move is by teleporting yourself. Or sometimes there will be a glitch, and the key you needed will have been swallowed. It's crazy.

I'm pretty sure that staircase should not drop me in the middle of the ocean. Call me crazy, but it's just this hunch I've got. Guess cheaters really don't win. *snort*

And okay, so maybe Dupre isn't my favorite character after all the times he left my party for taking food in the Black Gate, but still. He's an amusing wino with a taste for wenches, and I can't really say I dislike any of the characters in these games. I mean, aside from the ones you're supposed to dislike, like Batlin. Stupid git. *sigh*

So much love for these games, seriously. Big hard love. Everyone should know the joy of casting mass death, and foiling the plans of software pirates. If I ever finish Serpent Isle (not likely), I'll have to do a write up of somesort, or a tribute or a layout or fanart, because these games were the formulative years of my life.

I am such a dork.

Dei knew perfectly well that he was a pathetic creature of habit, but what the hell. If being an obsessive compulsive freak kept him from going postal, so be it. And if that obsessive compulsiveness included scheduled trips to 7-11 for a slurpee, a donut, and a Reader's Digest at one in the morning every Thursday, so be it.

At least this trip had some sort of a purpose to it; he was investing time and money in finding new and petty ways to annoy his brother. The surprise board meeting tomorrow morning would be a perfect place to assault Tyler with one of his lesser but more offensive vices: cigarettes.

He kind of needed a nicotine fix now, anyway; normally he went through maybe a pack every two weeks, if that, but lately he'd been getting surprise visits from Len and Opal. They would come by with lunch and appropriately concerned expressions and ask if he was feeling all right, or if he needed anything else. It was aggravating, and when he told them politely to fuck off, they started sending Teia and Juhee in with snacks and vitamin supplements. All the women in my life just want to be my mother. No wonder I'm not getting laid. That thought was particularly depressing, but it was best not to dwell on it. And, since he wasn't allowed to drink during the week without getting the third degree from someone- Because I'm not pushing sixty (and don't look a day over thirty, still), I'm actually still living in my dead parents' basement and need constant fucking supervision...- he found himself needing a cigarette more and more often.

And everything that went on at the office was Tyler's fault, because the kid had grown into his role of anal retentive, micro-managing, control freak over the years. Thankfully, his little brother could not stand the smell of cigarette smoke, and thus he was initiating Phase One of Operation Piss Tyler the Fuck Off.

He nodded to the cashier, who knew him on sight by now, and scanned the rows of cigarettes. Why the fuck were the tobacco companies offering so many choices? Normally he just smoked cloves, or some bizarre import of Jubal's (which meant that they probably came from another planet and were likely to turn his lungs purple, nevermind black).

"Can I help you make a decision, Mr. Wexford, or would you just like the usual?" The neat, clipped British accent stirred Dei out of his reverie.

He grinned a little sheepishly. "Thanks, Omar. The usual, and something unfiltered or-"

The bell above the door jingled as a boy walked into the store. Dei felt warning bells going off in the back of his head like a St. Agatha's celebration. The kid couldn't have been more than seventeen, but the hood on his sweatshirt was pulled up and over his face, and he walked like someone carrying a gun.

The air tasted metallic and sharp, suddenly: fear. He was someone carrying a gun. Dei repressed the urge to sigh dramatically. Kids. They started so young, these days- he'd waited until he was out of college before building up a rap sheet, even if that hadn't really been his fault. Not that he didn't want to break Tyler's ribs now, of course...

The kid was shouting now, and had pulled out his gun. This time Dei really did sigh. He hated guns. Swords were so much more elegant, and it was so much easier to hit your intended target with them. He knew Omar had a shotgun for dealing with stupid kids. He also knew that this particular stupid kid was desperate- it was a noble sort of desperation, though. The air was charged with intent; this money was for someone else.

And am I a sucker for a noble cause? You bet. If nothing else, it might get him out of tomorrow's board meeting. He began making soothing noises at the kid, and reached into his jacket for his wallet. Get him to put the gun down, give him some money, send him on his way. Don't spend it all in one place, kid.

At least, that was the way it should have gone, but some people had itchy trigger fingers. He wasn't really even paying attention when he stepped between the two guns, which was probably why it hurt more than he expected it to. Dumbass. Next time, try catching the bullets. Or melting them. Or maybe just stopping time so you've got a minute to think? Crazy super powers, yeah, fuck that, some super heroe, this is what got you into the last mess, dumbass. Maybe we should just fucking learn to dodge. Tyler is going to be furious...

Omar was shouting his name, and he couldn't find his arm, which was a bit frightening. Pushing sixty, allegedly immortal, and he'd never had to worry about his limbs before. Internal organs, sure, but limbs? They never went for the limbs, that was too easy. And once they were gone, they couldn't hurt you anymore, not really. He already had the scars to prove that. But there was his arm, and it wasn't really attached, and there was the kid, just staring at him.

Move it, kid. Grab the wallet and go, now isn't the time to be altruistic. Dei almost cheered when the boy finally ran. He wondered if they'd let him have a cigarette when he got to the hospital.

Somehow, he doubted it.
---------------

Tristan has him pegged- he is a dork. A huge, screaming, yuppie dork. This is sort of the beginning of the end; it's technically Tristan's story, but it's also Dei's story, since I couldn't just have him tossing angst like a hairball every January. Sort of a sequel, sort of just a series of "what happens next?" things.

I'm still not sure about the timeline or the ages, but they're all much older than they were in the beginning. Tyler and Opal are happily married and not making babies; Tyler runs his dad's company, Opal started a record label using Tyler's money, mostly. She's a world famous cellist, and she has an excellent board of directors to keep Fire Star Records successful. Dei spent a lot of time bar hopping until he met Lyra, who he immediately fell in love with, proposed marriage to, and was subseqently abandoned by two weeks after meeting her. What few friends he had at that point all ended up dead one way or another, and he checked himself into a mental hospital for a few years.

Lyra went on to become the biggest thing in the music industry since the Beatles and Nirvana combined. Twenty years later, her band, Ekphrasis, has changed the face of music, and Dei is still in love with her. Hasn't spoken to her in twenty years, though. Tyler finally couldn't deal with the angst and put him in proper rehab, and gave him a job heading one of Opal's pet projects. Melisma Sounds is a non-profit record label for new artists and charity fund raising. Since all of these businesses have demons behind the scenes, they all just run themselves, really; Dei is actually in charge of policing the traffic of otherworldly beings into and out of this reality. But he still has to make public appearances for Firestar and Melisma; officially, Deodat Karolus is dead of heroin overdose, so now he goes by Dee Wexford and expends a great deal of energy convincing people that he has no familial connection to Opal or Tyler, no matter what he looked like with long hair.

He's still not exactly stable, and Tyler is more demon-like than human these days, which just makes him annoying. Opal is more of an angel now, too, which just means that computers tend to explode on her. Jance gave in to his inner metrosexual and became a fashion designer/personal tailor for the Karolus family, Toby ended up as a vampire and Dei still blames himself, and Jubal and Len occasionally do productive things, but mostly just fool around.

The gun was cold in his hand, beneath the loose fabric of his sweatshirt. The gun was cold, and so was his skin, even though he was sweating, ever so slightly. Just enough to make his skin twitch in the artificial chill of the air conditioned 7-11, just enough to make his palms slippery and his armpits prickle. He concentrated on breathing, on seeming natural- but who was he kidding, he wasn't a natural at anything but being a fuckup, and this wasn't going to be any different.

He just knew it.

The little convenience store was nearly empty- just the cashier and some dork agonizing over filtered cigarettes at the counter. If he waited any longer, he'd lose his nerve; too bad for the dork. He was tall, but thin, like a sign post in need of a hair cut: not at all threatening. And he was well dressed, probably had a lot of money on him, or maybe a credit card. But credit cards were dangerous, easy to track. Not that it mattered a whole lot, since he only needed the money for the one thing. The one person.

He knew this was a bad idea. This wasn't going to work. Carly was going to kill him.

The gun was suddenly very hot in his hands, and his palms were miraculously dry as he pulled it out of his sweatshirt and began shouting. "Alright! Hands up where I can see them! You, on the floor, and you, start filling that bag! NOW!"

The two men stared at him blankly, and then stared at the gun in his remarkably steady hands. Maybe he wouldn't fuck this one up. Maybe. If they would just stop staring and start moving..."Hurry it up, I don't have all fucking day! MOVE!"

The cashier was reaching for something under the counter and the dork was talking, slow and soft and rythmic, reaching into his jacket and just talking, "...put the gun down, you don't need to hurt anybody, it's okay, it's okay, no one's going to hurt you, you don't need to hurt anybody..."

"Shut the fuck up, pretty boy, and get on the ground! And you, the money, before I blow your fucking head off!" It was almost laughable, it really was, the way everything was moving in slow motion, the way the cashier was pulling a shotgun up from beneath the counter, and of course it would already be loaded, and it was just amazing how well he could pick out little details like the serial number inscribed on the barrel that was pointing at his head, or the impossibly loud noise the mechanism made when being cocked, and he didn't want to kill anyone but he didn't want to die, and he was sweating again, and shivering and everything was happening all at once, too fast.

"No!" That was the dork, long arms flying to put himself in front of two bullets, as both guns went off at the same time.

Fuckup. Story of his life. The man had been pulling out his wallet, and it went skittering between a shelf full of chips and salsa and the ice cream freezer as the shotgun ripped his arm off, just dangling there by a few bits of mangled skin at a funny angle when the guy hit the floor in a sort of greenish heap. Tristan's aim had been off; there was a smoking hole in a carton of cigarettes, filling the air with the sickly sweet smell of tobacco and burning cardboard.

Tristan met the guy's eyes for half a second. They were blue. Really blue. And he was just lying in his own blood, looking kind of lost and confused, staring right back at him. The sound of the cashier discharging the spent shells brought him back to reality.

Tristan dropped his gun, grabbed the guy's wallet, and ran for his life.

Fuckup. What else was new?

It's sitting by the overcoat,
The second shelf, the note she wrote
That I can't bring myself to throw away
And also
Reach she said for no one else but you,
Cuz you won't turn away
When someone else is gone

I'm sorry 'bout the attitude
I need to give when I'm with you
But no one else would take this shit from me
And I'm so
Terrified of no one else but me
I'm here all the time
I won't go away
It's me, yeah I can't get myself to go away
It's me, and I can't get myself to go away
Oh God I shouldn't feel this way, no

[chorus]

Reach down your hand in your pocket
Pull out some hope for me
It's been a long day, always ain't that right
And no Lord your hand won't stop it
Just keep you trembling
It's been a long day, always ain't that right

Well I'm surprised that you'd believe
In any thing that comes from me
I didn't hear from you or from someone else
And you're so
Set in life man, a pisser they're waiting
Too damn bad you get so far so fast
So what, so long

(chorus)

It's me, yeah and I can't get myself to go away
It's me, yeah and I can't get myself to go away
Oh God I shouldn't feel this way

Reach down your hand in your pocket
Pull out some hope for me
It's been a long day, always ain't that right
And no Lord your hand won't stop it
Just keep you trembling
It's been a long day, always ain't that right
-"Long Day," Matchbox 20

I adore this song to pieces, you know. My Matchbox 20 CD skips on the later songs, but this one is number 2, and I love it.

Right now, however, BNL is playing- and this particular album has so many memories attached to it, it physically hurts to listen. Granted, most things are like that, but it still surprises me that I can hear the opening guitar to "Brian Wilson" and suddenly be driving to Philadelphia again. It only hurts in an abstract "Oh, God, why do I still remember?" sort of way, rather than any actual pain from the memories themselves, now. Although "Call and Answer" was a bit surprising- it had to have been eighth grade, which means it was probably summer- the couches were the old, pale green ones. And I said I couldn't stand the song and she said she kind of liked it...

Time wounds all heels, I suppose.

In slightly less banal (but only a bit) news, I'm probably going to work on Tristan's story soon, since he's been shouting a lot lately. He's very loud. *sigh*

Indulgent Writer's Survey

What's the last thing you wrote?: Few paragraphs of Callo-fic for Vagrant Story, and a few lines of Stella Matin.
Was it any good?: Well, I'm fond of the fic, but that says nothing about its quality. Stella's just weird.
What's the first thing you ever wrote that you still have?: Guh. Bits of generic fantasy stuff from sixth grade or so, I think.
Was it any good?: Nurr. The lack of improvement from then to now is a bit disheartening.
Write poetry?: Yarr.
Angsty poetry?: Used to.
Favorite genre of writing?: To read or to write? To read, mostly good fiction, but especially steampunk, parody fantasy, and urban fantasy...for writing, urban fantasy, because that's what I know. Sort of. Gah, whatever. Do vignettes count as a genre?
Most fun character you ever wrote?: Wait, fun to write, or fun in general? Jubal is fun to write, because if I run out of things for him to say, I just have him curse profusely. Otherwise, Len. Totally Len, both before and after the name change.
Most annoying character you ever wrote?: Dei, when he's in whiny bitch mode. Otherwise, Vincent Bonhomme. The bastard.
Best plot you ever wrote?: My plotting ability blows monkeys for fifty cents a pop.
Coolest plot twist you ever wrote?: See above. Or, I suppose Amulius' whole backstory in Seventh Hour. Not really a plot twist, though.
How often do you get writer's block?: It ain't writers block, it's fucking laziness.
How do you fix it?: Lately? I don't. I used to just sit and force the words- but it always sounds better in my head, and that's always discouraging.
Write fan fiction?: Yarr.
Of what?: Middle skool Final Fantasies, Harry Potter, various anime, various other video games. Rarely books, and never tv shows.
Is it better or worse than your other writing?: Since it's all I seem to be writing these days, probably a little better.
Do you type or write by hand?: More of the former than the latter, but it used to be all by hand. I should probably go back to that; there's less pressure to write anything good when you write by hand.
Do you save everything you write?: Yarr.
Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?: Yarr.
What's your favorite thing that you've written?: The first paragraph of Sunny Hill, and the first six thousand words of Seventh Hour. (Never mind that I never got past that first paragraph, of course...)
What's everyone else's favorite thing that you've written?: I suppose Boffo is all they've ever really seen.
Do you even show people your work?: Define "people" and define "show." I don't count people on ff.net as "people", and I don't count leaving things in the blog for anyone to read as "showing," so the answer would probably be nurr.
Who's your favorite constructive critic?: Dun have very many of those, so anyone who manages constructive criticism becomes a favorite by default.
Do you have a website for your writings?: Yarr.
Did you ever write a novel?: Yarr.
Was is for NaNoWriMo?: Yarr and nurr. Boffo is technically finished and technically novel length, but not for the Nano; DDD is not finished but technically novel length and was done for the Nano.
Have you ever written fantasy, sci-fi, or horror?: Yarr.
Ever written romance or teen angsty drama?: Yarr, sorta.
What's your favorite setting for your characters?: White Hawk, my happy fictional city that sort of resembles Boston, in that it's cleaner than Philly and not New York but on a body of water. There are lots of theme bars with silly names and sillier themes (the Hampsterdance one is the worst, though) and the place is just crawling with zombies.
What's one genre you have never written, and probably never will?: Um...probably straight out romance, and I've little patience for mystery.
How many writing projects are you working on right now?: Working? Hah.
Do you want to write for a living?: Maybe. I used to, now I'm not so sure.
Have you ever written something for a magazine or newspaper?: Highschool litmag and newspaper.
Have you ever won an award for your writing?: Can't remember. Probably nurr.
Ever written something in script or play format?: Yarr.
What are your five favorite words?: Also, fuck, quite, however, goad.
Do you ever parody?: Merr.
What's your favorite thing to parody?: Harry Potter. Myself.
Do you actually like that thing, or are you spitefully making fun of it?: Yarr.
Do you ever write based on yourself?: Yarr.
What character that you've written most resembles yourself?: Opal started out as a self insert. *wallows in shame* But all of them are reflections on myself.
Where do you get ideas for your other characters?: Other people, other people's characters.
Do you ever write based on your dreams?: Yarr.
Do you favor happy endings, sad endings, or cliffhangers?: Happy (sucker for sap), but not so happy that I can't write angsty snippets about the characters afterwards. *coughcoughBoffocough*
Have you ever written based on an artwork you've seen?: Yarr.
Write me a really classy simile: This simile is like Nicole Kidman.
Now write me a really dumb simile: This simile is like a rock. A really dumb one.
Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?: Yarr.
Ever write something entirely in chatspeak? (How r u?): Nurr.
Entirely in L337?: Nurr.
Was that question completely appalling and un-writerlike?: Merr.
Does music help you write?: Yarr.
Do you have a weblog or livejournal?: Yarr. Several.
Do you write your life as if it were one of those journal books?: Merr? Yarr? ...oh. Yeah, the livejournal does read like a stupid diary. Oh well.
Are people surprised and confused when they find out you write well?: Generally they don't. Or I don't. Or something like that.
Quote something you've written. The first thing to pop into your mind!: "It's the fear of the fall that brings you closer to god." Gawd, I'm a pretentious waste of space. Kind of fond of the quote, though.
I dare you to take a personality survey as one of your characters: Yarr.

Such, and other stuff nonsense- Vagrant Story.

The problem with replaying Vagrant Story is that it tends to make me obsess, and consider various aspects of certain characters that I hadn't before. And I really must get over my fear of fanfic, because there's just so much that you can do with the story and characters; I'm sad that this game received so little acclaim, because it really is amazing. (Amazing enough to have me rereading my favorite fics for it over again for the fourth time...)

It's difficult to come up with original ideas, though; it's amazing how influenced you are by other, better fic writers. It's a little discouraging, too. I shall have to get over this, I suppose.

But I do wonder how Callo would react if she met up with Ashley after the end of everything; keeping these people in character is annoying because they're all such stoic, selfish bastards, or they're all headcases- and they all speak with that pseudo-formal-medieval diction that's a pain to replicate, because the game sort of created its own mode of speaking. Well, that, or the localizers just weren't paying attention all the time- but it's not like it actually takes place in fourteenth century France. So they're forgiven, mostly, just because the Crimson Blades in the wine cellars get into an argument and finally one shouts at the other, "Buggered if I know!" And then Ashley kills them. Oops.

I've decided to obsess over Callo, the only female character with lines who survives. Neesa doesn't count, since I like to think that she dies. Now, let me repeat this- Callo, the only female character with lines who survives. My general dislike of all female characters ever is practically legendary. (That is to say, not at all, but I like to think it is.) The only other female character with lines who survives that Square has done that I actually don't despise or otherwise feel apathetic towards is...Selphie. And that's only because of my idiotic replaying of VIII and subsequent minor fixation on characters I didn't really notice in ninth grade. (And because, dude, Selphie is crazy. She's also a sorceress, but I'm not writing that when I've got Callo on the brain.)

I realized the other day that I wanted to be fourteen again. There are so many things I could refrain from screwing up, if I got to do it over again. But then I wouldn't only be six years too late, I'd be eleven years too late, and that's just a bit much. Nevermind. I've just found myself missing freshman year a bit. Or rather, missing 1999 a bit. That's all it really is- I want to be who I am now, and I want it to be 1999.

Life's a bitch, and I'm supposed to be talking about Vagrant Story. Only I could do that for...oh, maybe a few years, and still not cover everything. They're not plot holes, not really, they're just things they left out. Bastards. But I like Callo, and I like Hardin, and I think I'm going to do unforgiveable things to Joshua.

The game already did unforgiveable things to Sydney and Ashley, so I'm just going to have them snark at each other. They're like Setzer and Shadow, only with more angst and less chemistry...or something. (What was that? Was that the sound of V not inflicting her perverted yaoi notions on two male characters? Or was it the sound of the world ending? I'm pretty sure they'd sound kind of similar...) Sure, the game gives all sorts of material to work with, between Ashley's asspants and Sydney's crotchpants and lack of shirt, and the way Sydney flirts with Ashley all the time- that whole hart/hunter thing? Yeah. Okay. He's as fruity as Kuja, only a little less psycho. (Just a smidge.) But Ashley, even with those pants and that hair, still comes off as mostly sexless- to me, at least.

Haven't decided whether or not to turn the Callo thing into a multi chapter fic or if I should just keep it short and simple; probably the former, and I'll save any Callo/Ashely/Joshua shennanigans for a potential sequel.

And maybe I'll play with reincarnation a bit, do a little research, and make Ashley a fighter pilot in WWII. He'd enjoy that, I think.

*wanders off to make notes* I am so doomed.

I have decided that if I ever want my past (such as it is) to stop haunting me, I'd better get off my ass and write something. Preferably fanfic, but anything will do, really.

I'm thinking I ought to write Sephiroth fic, if only for my computer's sake. Seph/Zack shennanigans would be good, I think...we shall see. Because if it isn't that, it'll probably be Vagrant Story angst, written to OLP on repeat.

Something new, something bright, something honeysuckle-scented for summer- something to keep me from eating lightbulbs and gnawing off my own hands.

Something to- just maybe- put me where I've always wanted to be.

This is my 1,100th post.

That is all.

OMGWTFSTFUBBQ!!! Blogger, why must you do this every year? Wasn't the old way good enough for you? Couldn't we go back to that so that I don't claw my eyes out in blind fury?

It's pink. I liked the tacky blue and orange, damnit! Why is it pink? And those new templates? And the profiles with pictures? What are we, Xanga?

*cries* I know, I know, I'm being elitist an annoying, change is good, blahblahblah...this is what I get for not updating for weeks on end, I suppose.

There are some interesting new features, but dude. The pink, with the light blue and the orange? Not cool, not cool at all. They revamped things around this time last year, and I actually kind of liked things then, but this? Meh. I liked having the double window view for posting. It was convenient and fun. This is just sort of sparse and bare.

I suppose it's time for a layout change. *shakes head* Man, the world's gone crazy, I swear...

Winamp, that was crackheaded. Appropriate, but crackheaded.

Squall and Laguna were pulled on "I Believe In a Thing Called Love." Yes, the crazy space octopus song. The really perky one. *snerk*

Nice one, winamp.

Out there where we're living on the dark side of the day
Something's in our way
What is hard to say
Rushing in and out like players in a phantom band
Life is out of hand
As night falls on the land

Time will not begin - It's in your mind
We'll get out when we get in
Shadows on the wind they touch the sky
We'll be walking on the wind
We'll be walking on[walking on] the wind

Guessing games are over - We can't answer number one
We crawl and then we run
And everything's been done
Laugh or cry; live or die - I been somewhere in between
The pissant and the king
Still the crowd will sing

Time will not begin - It's in your mind
We'll get out when we get in
Shadows on the wind they touch the sky
We'll be walking on the wind
We'll be WALKING ON [walking on] THE WIND

To know it in your bones
That time will come to pass
And time will never save you from your past

Here where we are living on the dark side of the day
Something's in our way
What is hard to say
The lost, the undiscovered will all be close at hand
When night falls on the land
All will understand

We will dance upon the water
We will walk upon the wind
We will tear down all the borders
Let the holy time begin

We will walk upon the wind
We will tear down all the borders
We will walk upon the wind
-Spock's Beard, "Walking on the Wind"
I might like this song as much as I like "The Doorway" or "Crack the Big Sky," actually. So much of Spock's Beard is just incredibly uplifting; the rest of it is random and strange, but the songs with lyrics that are halfway meaningful make me very, very happy.

I also always seem to find parallels between the songs and various characters or fandoms of mine...this one, in particular, is FFIV and FFX. More X than IV, really, but there are still parallels, and I'm enough of a dork to obsess over them.

w00t, SB, and their crazy guitar/drum solos. Next time I have a free half hour, I'll listen to "The Great Nothing." :)

"Funny how watching myself bleed, even a little bit, has cleared my mind. Of course, it could have just been the cake."

"You know what your problem is? You never learned to just say things. You always have to make these huge, sweeping gestures-"

"I really don't think scratching up my arm a bit is a huge, sweeping gesture-"

"Well you wanted it to be, didn't you? You keep trying to make these gestures, and you always fall short because you could never go through with it. I mean, look at this. All you really need is a band-aid, and in two weeks there won't even be a scab. What did you use, a safety razor?"

"...shut up."

"Yeah, I thought so. You should have just said something, baby. We'd have listened, you know. We're your friends, but we can't very well read your mind."

"Maybe you should work on that."

"Well, right now you're thinking of how embarassed you are to be sitting here with me while I put a band-aid on your bleeding arm. It's not even bleeding that much anymore, really. I hope your head is clear, but you could've achieved that by walking outside for a little while."

"Are you kidding? In this weather? I'd suffocate and die."

"Then stick your head in the refrigerator for a little while, Jesus! Don't sit around in your bathrobe, trying to break apart your razors with a rock- and what the hell were you doing with a rock in your room, anyway?"

"I collect them, dipshit. So I can break people's skulls in their sleep. Christ, I don't know, I thought it was pretty and I picked it up years ago- it just happened to be at hand when I was contemplating self-mutilation."

"See, it's people like you that make the people with real problems look bad."

"Thank you, that makes me feel so much better."

"Oh, shut up, honestly. What are you going to do when I leave, write bad poetry? I'm telling you, you need to talk to someone. I'm right here, I'll listen."

"I have nothing to say!"

"Bullshit. You have lots to say. Tell me how worthless you feel, tell me how much you hate asking for help, and how much you hate it when people have any sort of expectations for you, because you know you'll disappoint them. Just let it all out, I'm not going anywhere."

"If you know everything already, then why should I have to say anything?"

"Because if you don't, it just sits in your skull and rots like the rest of your brain does whenever you don't do anything but stare at a computer screen for hours on end. And then, when it's all rotted into purple goo, it'll drip out of your ears, and you know who they'll ask to clean it up? Me. And fuck that, man, I am not cleaining up your purple rotted brain goo. So, talk. Talk to me, baby, tell me why you tried to chew your arm off. I'm all ears."

"You're all psycho, that's what you are."

"Yeah, but I'm here, and right now I'm all you've got. So talk to me. I'll start singing if you don't."

"Oh, go on, I like a good serenade."

"Remember Bye Bye Birdie? Yeah? You don't fucking want me to serenade you, I don't have my backup with me today. So talk."

"You have shitty bedside manner, and you talk more than enough for the both of us."

"That's cool, baby, I'll just be quiet then."

"...you know, one would think, that of all the things a person could choose to do, making themselves bleed would be one of the easier ones. Couldn't even get that right."

"That's okay. It hurts when you cut yourself. Hurting yourself ain't fun."

"I thought it would help. It didn't. I thought I could get things right for once, you know? Even if all I was doing was making myself bleed just for the sake of seeing blood, I thought I could get it right. I guess I was being selfish."

"Ain't no one else around here who wants to see you bleed, sweetheart. But there's nothing wrong with doing something for yourself. Even if you're trying to slit your wrists, there's nothing wrong with trying to feel better. Your methods leave something to be desired, but there's nothing wrong with the sentiment."

"But I didn't want to kill myself. I don't want to die, you know? I just...sometimes, I don't feel like being alive, either. All I do is make other people unhappy."

"I dunno, I find you pretty fucking hilarious most of the time."

"Even now?"

"Shit, especially now. You don't find this situation amusing? Here we are, sitting on the kitchen floor with a box of band aids and the remains of a yellow sheet cake, no frosting, while I act like an ass to get you to spill your heart. What's not to laugh at?"

"We're running out of cake."

"That's the spirit! Stay there, I'll get us some frosting. You think of something to say, and when I get back, I promise I won't listen, how about that? I'll just eat some cake, and you can talk if you want, I promise not to listen."

"You're learning."

"I try. Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Both?"

"Brilliant idea! I knew I liked you for a reason. Be right back- there'd better be cake left when I return. And leave the fucking band aid alone. Christ!"

"...yeah. Totally the cake."

See, I know the way my mind works. I know the way my self destructive habits kick in when I'm under stress. I know this happens every single year.

I have no excuse.

It's raining, which is not an excuse. I'm tired and slightly sick, which is also not an excuse.

There are three weeks left of school, and that's certainly not an excuse, but it frightens me more than I can say.

Fucking hell. I think I just need to hit something for a while, or I need to go home, or maybe find a corner in the stacks and hibernate for a little while. I need to move furniture or engage in wanton destruction or start drinking lots of caffeine.

A cigarette burns down to its filter in an ashtray, forgotten.

The sun sets through the grimy window, forgotten.

The faucet drips steadily, forgotten.

A man sits at his typewriter, staring at the keys, forgetting.

The problem, she said, slowly, carefully, clearly, Is not that we are lost. It is that we know precisely where we are, and we are desperately afraid someone else will find us.

There is one hour and fourteen minutes left until the end of the world. What are you doing?
The world does not give a damn.

I need a new plotline. Badly.

Tristan, Jim, and Carly are all Insert Acronym Here agents, which means they help monitor the gates between realities. Naturally the angels and demons have a monopoly on the inter-reality travel, but there are other races that used to travel quite frequently before the Inferno. Since earth is populated mostly by clueless humans, it was decided that having flights of dragons looking for new hunting grounds would be a generally bad idea. Tyler and Opal set up an organization to monitor all movement between realities; individuals who have not obtained permits or who haven't registered with the organization are prosecuted.

Dei is in charge, because after the Lyra and Toby escapade (whee, things I haven't written or even conceptualized!) he decided he needed a real job that didn't involve getting attached to people. Since most of the people working for him are fairly immortal, he doesn't need to worry about them dying or getting hurt- until Tris, Jim, and Carly stumble through the door in the tradition of nosy kids the world over. Their backstory is something tragic, I'm sure- dead parents, living on the street, blah blah blah angst whine blah.

For the record, it wasn't Dei's idea to give them jobs, it was Shateiel's- and her judgement when it comes to kids really should not be trusted. At all. Ever. But their age and the fact that they're humans gives them an advantage when it comes to interlopers trying to blend in with the population, so they are fairly useful. It's just that Tristan is perpetually unlucky and Jim is incredibly accident prone while Carly just has bad judgement and keeps on falling in love with their targets.

They amuse me with their teenaged angst and hero-worship of my other characters. (Dei is good at inspiring awe; Opal and Tyler are all-powerful, mostly, but he's the one who ended the war, and that sword of his is one nasty bugger. He's also still too pretty for his own good, but that's neither here nor there.)

Tristan is almost painfully ordinary; he's the oldest of the three but has no outstanding traits. Jim is smarter, Carly is more articulate- about the only thing Tris has going for himself is his honesty and his persistence. He's not stupid, not exactly- he's just not brilliant, either. Jim and Carly are his family, and he does everything he can to keep them safe and happy. Of course, now that they've all been more or less adopted by IAH, Tristan doesn't have as much of a purpose anymore. He's the sort of person who needs someone to take care of- and now that Jim and Carly are independent, he's floundering.

Naturally, in his floundering, he decides that the person who most needs his mothering is Dei. *palmsmack* Granted, somebody needs to make sure he doesn't subsist entirely on coffee and danishes, but Tristan is generally the last person most people would pick for the job.
Carly: When Angst Muffins Collide, news at ten.
Not that Tristan's especially angsty, he's just a teenager, and incredibly resentful of most things.

This has gone on far too long. blah.

(unfinished; post-Boffo plotline)

Jim tilted his chair back at a dangerous angle and cracked his knuckles, still staring at the computer screen. "Hey, Tris, come take a look."

Tristan put down his paintbrush and set aside the little pot of paint, leaving his figurines half painted at the table. "What's up?" He stood behind Jim's chair and tipped it forward, putting all four legs on the ground.

"You know Tyler and Opal Karolus, head of HG Tech?"

"Yeah, they only sign our paychecks and you only gush over them every other day. Don't give me that look, you have a pinup of Opal on your wall." Tristan rested his elbows on Jim's shoulders. "I know stalking them is your hobby, but if this isn't important, could I get back to my hobby?"

Jim swatted at Tristan's head and ducked out from under his friend's elbows. "At least I don't see them every day when I go to work. Why don't you ask the boss for a picture to put in your wallet, Tris? You know- no, never mind. Therapist is Carly's job." He pointed at the screen, tilting backwards again. "Here's a newspaper article from like, thirty, forty years ago. Turn of the century."

Tristan pushed Jim's chair firmly to the ground and scanned the article. "So some rich kid went apeshit and killed his dad's mistress- tell me again why I should care?"

Jim sighed. "This is clearly why I am the brains of this operation. Let me connect some dots for you. Before Tyler and Opal took over, HG Tech was called Karolus Industries. That rich kid is the oldest son of R K Karolus, who was supposed to inherit the company when his dad died. Here, look at this. It's about three years after the first article."

"And the rich guy dies; Tyler took the company 'cuz his brother gave it to him. What's important about this?"

Jim turned around in his chair to look directly at Tristan. "Dude. This was practically forty years ago. Tyler Karolus was eighteen when he inherited- R K died on his birthday, which happened to coincide with his half brother's. Does Tyler look like he's almost sixty? Does Opal? Look at these pictures."

"Jim. The boss' secretary has seven eyes on a good day. Carly's boyfriend has wings and can set you on fire with his mind. Tyler and Opal are just as much a part of our division as they are. Remember when the boss said there were exactly four humans in the division? Us and him. I'm not surprised." Tristan gave the younger boy a noogie.

"Watch the hair, you bastard! Take a closer look at the pictures. Who's that all the way on the right?"

Tristan rested his hands on the back of the chair and looked, then went very, very still.

"D'you think the boss looks like he's sixty-something? Deodat Karolus is seven years older than his brother."

For a few seconds it seemed like Tristan hadn't heard him, but the sound of splintering wood made it rather clear that he had. "Tris? You're buying me a new chair."

"Can I kill him first?" Tristan's voice was vague and distant, almost sleepy. The back of the chair splintered further between his fingers. "That lying bastard."

(once, there were muses, singing freely;
now they are muted and i must strain to
hear them weep.)

(unfinished, imitative)
There was light in the darkness, the new Holy
Trinity, gathered in the shadows of
The cross.

By this Power are our doubts
Resolved, dissolved into so much singing alcohol in the
Blood as we sing our praises to the faith. This
New religion leaves no room for our old selves.

(Song of Shadows)
(unfinished, because Zyn? Still has no character development.)

Von recognizes, sometimes, that he is surrounded by beautiful people, and that this is a totally unnatural phenomenon.

First there was Ari'i. He could hardly remember a time without her, without the slide of her soft, curving limbs and the taste of her sweet dark skin. The first time their eyes met, he knew her, knew what she was: the most beautiful woman in the world. There was a fire beneath her skin that lit up her eyes when she smiled and when she moved she glimmered, heavy and golden. She was beautiful, blindingly beautiful, in a way that mere humans could neither rival nor comprehend.

Then there was Cata, who came out of nothingness and often seemed as though she would wither away into so much nothingness once again. The sharp angle of her hips and the strip of bare skin between her tank top and her skirt were agressive and angry and brittle like broken glass. She glittered, too, with her harsh lines and angles refracting the light into thousands of tiny, fragile rainbows. Insubstantial and delicate, but sharp enough to make you bleed without realizing it, sharp enough to cut to the bone. But if you looked beyond her fashion magazine figure and the fishnets and spiked collars you saw the way her mascara bled around eyes that didn't just glitter but burned and raged with a light so intense it hurt. And then you wondered how she didn't burn up from the inside, with eyes like those. She was fragile and flawed and nearly broken, but she was lovely, dark and bleeding and beautiful.

"March 03"

I saw the full moon in Seattle. It
Quite caught me by surprise. This was the moon,
The magical moon of March. The vernal
Equinox is nigh. All hail the full moon
In March that tugs all things hidden under
The earth, under still hearts, and brings them out
Again. I wash in the smell of quickened
Earth and decomposing leaves: a special loam
Cologn. I bathe in moist live things that make my
Heart Quicken like the pulsing earth and me,
Morose once, am glad. Am glad? Am glad! I
Live now gulping up this feral scent and
Stirrings in my loins engender there a
Proud power of anti-stasis, and of
Kinetic and frenetic movement. Howl!
Dogs bark wildly and rub themselves in dirt
And ordure. They rise, filthy, caked with it.
Glory be to dogs!
-STKD

I want to write like this someday. *jealousy, unfounded and useless*

A few thoughts on Good Omens:

Why is Aziraphale so often written as a complete and utter wuss in fanfic? Did we read the same book? 'Cuz, y'know, the Aziraphale I read about may have acted like a southern pansy, but when it came down to the wire, he wasn't the one having a nervous breakdown the way Crowley was. All in all, Aziraphale handled the apocalypse much better than just about everyone else, excepting maybe Adam.

It just bugs me when Aziraphale is written as a completely innocent, helpless little fop. He's a nice guy, yeah, and a bit clueless, but come on- god didn't give him that flaming sword in the Beginning for no reason.

Just my two cents, you know. Nothing more.

"Sunlight" would make a kickass AMV. The lyrics were posted months ago, maybe even the summer before last; I can't quite recall. But it's a good song, and it'd make great AMV fodder for nearly any series or game. It's just one of those always applicable songs.

...Akihiko Yoshida did the character designs for XII.

*swoon* This is the guy who did Tactics and Vagrant Story. This is the guy who did some of my favorite art and character designs in video game history. He's up there with Yoshitaka Amano on my list of Japanese artists that I adore.

And he's resonsible for Vaan's hair.

...*snicker* Don't get me wrong- I love his art. But he's admitted to making Vaan look extra effeminate, and that amuses me. He looks like a not-so-butch girl with a very flat chest.

But now I'm even more excited about the game- and by the time I get a ps2, there'll be talk of the PSX coming out, and that will make me sad. *sigh* Hopefully it'll be able to take cross platform games...and this time, I swear it'll be the last game of the series I play. Really. (I said this about nine and ten, mind you. I refuse to acknowledge the existence of eleven.)

eheh...oops, sunrise. Probably a good idea to go to bed soon...fucking school. *le sigh* When's daylight savings, anyway?

San Francisco as the modern day Sodom:

*roving bands of gay men*
"Hey, Lot! Open up and send out those angels so we can marry 'em!"

...*sigh*

"Lovely daughter of Apollo and Dionysis, she of unsurpassed beauty and melodious voice!"
"That's silly, Apollo and Dionysis can't have a daughter, they're both men!"
"Honey, this is Massachusetts, they can do whatever the hell they want to. 'Sides, they were the less manly gods, anyway. Androgenous and all."
"Like you?"
"Low blow, my lady, low blow. I believe I've been mortally wounded."
"Psh. Baby. That was meant as a compliment."
"Do you know how many times my brother accuses me of being gay in a single conversation? Do you?"
"Well it's true. You're one of the prettiest men I've ever seen. You're not gay, right? Because if you are, I might as well go home."
"There goes my pride again. Do I come off as that much of a fairy? Tell the truth, now."
"If you have to ask, you should already know the answer."
"Bullshit! You're avoiding the question."
"Yes. I wouldn't want to hurt your already wounded pride any further. Speaking of which, why don't I kiss it better?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
----

Woo, that needs a lot of work. It's not often I have actual muses appear in my head, demanding short stories and a starring role. I can't decide to keep it in script form or to make an actual story out of it, which is irritating. It has a certain charm as just a script, but I've been writing narrative for the set up, so...*shrug* I dunno.

Her name is Lyra. She's going to break Dei's heart, because that's what she's good at, but it'll be okay in the end. I think. Haven't gotten that far yet. *yawn* Sleeping now.

You're a little bit shy
A little too quiet
You're the mixed up girl
That everybody leaves behind
A little bit weird
A little too bright

But you just might be
That little bomb at their side
They'll pull your hair
They'll leave you wide - eyed
But did anybody wonder
What Annie might have in mind
On, no

There's something in the way she explains to me
"please be careful, I exist in someone else's head"
Oh, no

There's something in the way that she makes believe
Please be careful
Annie dreams that everyone is dead

You're a little bit dry
A little up tight
You're the messed up girl
That everybody tries to hide

You've had enough
They're too unkind
But did anyone consider what Annie might have in mind
Oh, no...

There's something in the way she explains to me
"please be careful, I exist in someone else's head"
Oh, no

There's something in the way that she makes believe,
Please be careful-
Annie dreams that everyone is dead...
everyone is dead.
-"Annie," Our Lady Peace

I love this song.

Something's blinding me, but I can't see it!
El on Velladina, after she's turned invisible

Evil people have lots of money...
So we're going to work for them?
Score!
-Amy, Jasper, Sam

I gots my ale, I gots my herbal remedies...
Bella

So then I can go sneaky-sneaky backstabby?
Sam

Fucking elves.
Sam

Alira and Maedros, sittin' in a tree-
H-I-D-I-N-G- shit.
-Ai Ling, Molly

Alira and Maedros, sittin' in a tree, C-H-I-L-L-I-N-G. It just doesn't sound right.
-Ai Ling

Who needs common sense when you've got a sword?
-Emily/Ryo

Fucking ff.net...they've set the default rating to exclude R rated fics now- and there's really no fucking reason for that at all. And they should have made some sort of announcement over it, because that's really, really annoying. Pisses me off; I tend to have a distorted view of what ratings should be, and I usual rate my writings higher just to be safe. It's bad enough writing an obscure pairing in an obscure fandom when your only place to post is on ff.net, but it's even worse when your stories won't show up where they're supposed to unless you realize that ff.net is be censorious again. I don't know if that's even a word. I'm *pissed.*

A few thoughts on the upcoming Final Fantasy XII...

Vaan is going to be slashed with Valfrea so hard he'll be coming back straight. And they can't disguise the fact that Fran is just Lulu with rabbit ears, or that Ashe is just but a plot device.

Since it's not coming out in Japan until next year, I'll have plenty of time to buy myself a PS2, Kingdom Hearts, FFX, and Suikoden III. Also Wild Arms III and Wild Arms Alter Code F, and Another Code F if it's out by then.

Because, y'know, I'm not letting this one get away. And I'm not borrowing someone else's system, either- the screenshots make me want to squeal jubilantly. Vaan's pants excite me, though Ashe's skirt looks like it's missing its other half. And V/Balfrea...oooh. Yes. (The big problem with X was the lack of good, plausible yaoi pairings- all of the good pairings usually involved dead people, and anyone who mentions Wakka/Tidus to me will be smited. X also had a villain problem...Seymour was such a fucking pain in the ass to kill, but otherwise, he was a complete pansy with no real connection to the actual evil in the game. These were problems in IX, too, where there weren't any plausible yaoi pairings...anyone who mentions Kuja/Zidane will also be smited. And Kuja was totally the badassest villain since Kefka (don't get me wrong, I adore Sephiroth, but he never actually succeeded in destroying the world. Kuja, on the other hand, went batshit and took down a planet. Woo.) but he wasn't the ultimate evil, and the final battle in IX is such a Deus Ex villain- similar to Zeromus in IV, but at least you had some warning of that before you got to the moon. Actually, now that I think about it, Zeromus could very well be Necron- similar modus operandi, at any rate.) That was an enormous parenthetical, but in case you forgot, I was talking about Balfrea, who really does look like some unholy hybrid of Seifer and Zell- only much, much cooler because he doesn't look like a whiny teenager. I hope Square Enix has learned their lesson over the years; games like VI and VII, where there were very few whiny teenagers, are in general more beloved by the overall populace.

I'm now a bit more excited about XII than I am about Advent Children, because Advent Children is going to suck and make me cry while XII is going to make me splee violently. Also, XII takes place in Ivalice, which means there will potentially be Tactics and Vagrant Story references. *splee*

One last thing before I get a life, I swear...this is purely rhetorical because when I go on about games I'm only talking to myself- but does it bother anyone else that Rikku in thief garb is actually just Jack Sparrow crossed with Schuldig? I know I've mentioned this before, but it disturbs me. A lot.

Ah, well. Off to do work.

"Ow! Fuck, that hurts, Ari'i."

"And it didn't when half a dozen supplicants jumped you? Quit being a baby- if you'd dodged properly, this wouldn't have happened."

"I dodged well enough, thank you. They missed the jugular."

Ari'i clucked her tongue disapprovingly and continued to swab the gouges in Von's back with disinfectant. "If you'd used Umbra, they wouldn't have touched you."

"What, and let her dig her claws even deeper in my soul? I'll take my luck with the vampires, thanks."

His words were like bitter water on her tongue, and she sighed. "You do realize that you're the only one who can't stand her, don't you? And for completely unfounded reasons, I might add..." She taped several layers of gauze over the wounds once she was satisfied that they were clean. His back wasn't as bad as it could have been; the scratches were wide but fairly shallow, and wouldn't scar. The bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder worried her more, but Von had insisted she tend to his back first. "There. Let me take care of that poison before you turn supplicant yourself."

"Maybe you should just leave it." His eyes were half lidded and dangerous over his shoulder.

"For Christ's sake, Von, there are better ways to kill yourself." She pushed his head down into the table and gently probed at the bite. His skin was dry and fevered, and lines of black and dirty yellow radiated out from the two puncture wounds like a malicious spider.

"But I haven't tried this one yet." His voice was slightly muffled against the tabletop.

Ari'i rested her fingertips against the punctures and stilled for a moment. This whole situation was like bile in her throat, and she wanted more than anything else to beat Von into submission. Instead, she concentrated on the dry and throbbing skin beneath her hand and thought of cool, clear water.

Imbrium's presence was calm and heavy in the back of her mind, drawing the poison out through her fingertips. "He's a fool. A fool with a mean streak- much like me. If this goes unresolved, one of them will die and I doubt it will be my sister."

"You can't keep doing this, Von."

"I know. They'll kill me eventually, don't worry."

She drew away the last of the poison, neutralized it, and absorbed it into herself. It was a new strain; whoever was creating the supplicants was finding new ways to arm them. Cata and Zyn would have to be told, but Cata and Zyn were out, finally spending some time with each other. They needed that.

She needed this. "I won't let you die, you idiot. I've been here for too long to just watch you kill yourself."

He didn't answer; she didn't expect one.

Latest Perdido Street Station update: the ending was a bit...disappointing. Rather...bleak. Lin shouldn't have ended like that, and Kura'chai came out of nowhere. Isaac and Derkham ended rather abruptly, which annoys me a bit. And, Yagharek's ending, while immensely satisfying, was also very contrived.

Jack Half-a-Prayer: Hello, my name is Deus. Deus Ex, if you will.
Kura'chai: Call me Ishmael...I mean, Dea Ex.
Motely: D'arr.
Rudgutter: My eyes!
The Weaver: i am too fucking cool for this cool for you too cool in here turn up the heat the sweet sweet delicious and lascivious heat...
Slake-Moth #5: Aw, shite.
Duke of Hell: I had five minutes in the book, but I still got mentioned on the cover. Score!
Construct Council: My I's!
Tansell and Shadrach: Dude, we totally got screwed.
Penge: Did you *ever*.
Lem: But not as bad as me.
Tan and Shad: Pfft. Amateur.
Me: I want my soul back. *cry*

Damn you China Mieville, for killing off all the cool characters.

*cry* *sniffle* *woe* Damnit, I liked them before I found out they were gay! >_<

Also, having to go to class when there's only a hundred pages left? So not cool. At all. Seriously.

Oh, The OC. So much teen angst. So much homoerotic subtext. So much painful, painful angst.

I love this show.

OH MY GOD CHINA MIEVILLE, I WORSHIP YOU. WORSHIP WORSHIP WORSHIP.

Yes, I felt the need to put down the book and pick up the computer to write a gushing entry about Perdito Street Station. The plots and the world and the characters but mostly the plots, the many many wonderful interweaving plots.

And the Weaver and the Slake Moths and the Eyespy Killer and the Weaver and the scissors and Mr Motely and the slake moths and the dreamshit and the...*gushgushgush*

"But what about the ears?"
"I have no idea! He thought it made the Web prettier! Obviously!"

"I urge you to continue your fabric work, of which I find myself a great devotee."

Oh, Weaver. Big hard love, right there. Big. Hard. Love. I want a picture. With scissors. And oh, oh, Rescue and Derkham and the Duke of Hell and the Torque and the yay. *gushspleesquee*

And...handlingers, dexerials and sinistrals. Guh. That is so. fucking. cool. Just- whoa, fucking whoa. Flying parasitic fire breathing hand things. So cool. *melts into puddle of rotting-lemon scented slake-moth goo* Soooo coooooool. *drools* *cries* Damn you, China Mieville! Damn you!

The Construct Council? More big hard love. Not as hard as the Weaver, but still pretty hard. Maybe about a 6 on the Mohs scale. Somewhere around quartz, whereas the Weaver? Diamond. Diamond all the way.

And finally! Something that can maybe tell me what the hell a catoblepas is.

Perdido Street Station. Big. Hard. Love. Oh yeah.

I think I have a harder time writing about purely inanimate things that I used to; poems about scenery and seasons passing don't come as easily to me as poetry about people. Not a particularly useful thing for imagist poems, as people aren't as static as wheelbarrows nor as easy to capture in a single moment, I suppose. So: three imagist poems for English 200. I'm only going to use one for class, probably "Home," it being the one that requires the least explanation. (The hallway at 7:15 really is a spectacular sight, though. If you're a minute early or a minute late, you'll miss it but the sun hits the window just so and the entire corridor is blinding.)

Citrus
The glitter in her
eye
The glow in her
cheek
Placed there by the
bite
sharp and sweet
of forbidden
fruit

7:15 AM
The sun through the window at the end of the hall
A world drenched in gold.

Home
The teakettle hissing at the cat
Who sleeps belly up
like the fish we had for dinner
Is blue and dappled
with flecks of rust.

Okay, so occasionally I babble about who I'd cast as my characters if the things I wrote were movies or something like that...It occurred to me weeks ago, when we were watching Memento that that particular version of Guy Pearce is exactly how I envision Shadow, only a bit better shaven and maybe a little thinner. (Shadow forgets to feed himself, sometimes.) And a comment made by someone about how Sydney of Vagrant Story could be played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyer made me realize that he could definitely play Setzer with enough makeup and a wig. Because Setzer is actually Brian Slade, you see. Only without the whole being a popstar thing and the stormy romance with Curt Wilde. Because Daryl? So not Ewan McGregor.

I'd almost go so far as to say Daryl is cooler than Ewan McGregor, only she's dead and not, y'know, Ewan McGregor. But she was cool. Until she died.

The other problem with casting Jonathan Rhys-Meyer as Setzer is that Setzer is not pretty. Shadow is pretty. Shadow is very pretty in that incredibly hot, masculine, ninja sort of way. He's way prettier than Setzer who looks kind of like Pollution from Good Omens- you know, like all those Victorian poets after the consumption and the drugs set in. Because that's what he is, only without the poetry. Smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish despite the fact that he coughs up bits of his lungs on a regular basis and his liver gave up years ago.

The fact that Setzer is so amazingly charismatic despite the fact that he really does look like a freak- and not in a good way- is one of the reasons I love writing him. His appearance is very striking, but so is a disemboweled cow. Setzer's just not quite as colorful, what with the skin condition and all. (Skin condition, heart condition, lung condition, liver condition..."I have a condition...") Yeah. He shouldn't have survived past the age of five, but he did, and somehow managed to help save the world along the way.

Anyone who can keep an attitude that laughs in the face of everything despite losing the love of his life twice (Daryl and Blackjack) has got to be a complete and utter sociopath, but he isn't, not really. Sure, he's not entirely sane, but he still knows up from down and he still does his best to defy even that convention.

Or, let me put it this way: he gate crashes a fucking opera and kidnaps the leading lady in the middle of a performance. He then agrees to betray his former employers who have been systematically taking over the world on a rigged coin toss. He's fucking awesome.

Which is why I think he deserves a Guy Pearce look-a-like to play with after the game, hence the fucking fanfic. :) That and they're cute, when they're not trying to kill each other.

I wrote her off for the tenth time today
And practiced all the things I would say
But she came over
I lost my nerve
I took her back and made her dessert
Now I know I'm being used
That's okay cause I've got no self esteem

We make plans to go out at night
I wait till 2 then I turn out the light
All this rejection's got me so low
If she keeps it up I just might tell her so

When she's saying that she wants only me
Then I wonder why she sleeps with my friends
When she's saying that I'm like a disease
Then I wonder how much more I can spend
Well I guess I should stick up for myself
But I really think it's better this way
The more you suffer
The more it shows you really care Right?

Now I'll relate this a little bit
That happens more than I'd like to admit
Late at night she knocks on my door
Drunk again and looking to score

Now I know I should say no
But that's kind of hard when she's ready to go
I may be dumb
But I'm not a dweeb
I'm just a sucker with no self esteem
- The Offspring, "Self Esteem"

*cough* Not sure why, but this is my mood right now...aftermath, indeed.
*twitch*

"The Glorious Ones" on the lot of us getting dressed for dragball. Why yes, yes we are.

Sanzo on "Mouth." Cute, winamp, real cute. I don't write Saiyuki, I just look at pictures of pretty boys, and that skin is very pretty, indeed. And wow, that song is so mood-appropriate, it hurts.

As of Sunday, this blog is two years old! So, to celebrate, I give you Shakespeare:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe
And moan th'expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances forgone
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore bemoaned moan
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

This sonnet is the essence of this journal...only I have yet to go full circle the same way the poem does.

Still, one of my favorites, just because it hits so close to home. (In case you were wondering, I had to re-memorize it. I lost it about a month after I presented it last year- Shakespeare is harder than Eliot, and I had less time to work on it.)

You know what's really fucking hilarious? If I hadn't lived in fucking New Jersey all my fucking life, and if it weren't just an hour away from home and if home hadn't decided to get whacked in the head senior year, I'd probably have gone to Drew. And, if I'd known then that what has happened now was going to happen, I'd also have gone to Drew. And that would be almost as ironic as me going to Holyoke if not more for reasons that I'm not going to explain because that's frankly none of your business and I have a blistering headache and don't really feel particularly rational.

So, I could've gone to Drew, where I'd have been either too intimidated or too fucked up or too much the wrong sort of person because we all know that I am. Then I'd be in the same predicament I'm in now only worse because of that horrible horrible irony that makes me wonder if some higher power doesn't find my being completely and utterly pathetic and detestable vaguely amusing, at least to the point where perpetuating this mess seems worthwhile. And of course I'm not making sense, I'm not even attempting to make sense, why should I bother making sense when all I'm doing is talking to myself?

I swear I'm not going crazy, I'm just tired and frustrated and in pain because my body has chosen the worst possible time to rebel, and I've been playing the possibilities game again because really, I never learn.

The grass is always greener when you're not looking at it.

Fuck, I need to go to sleep.

Take these plastic people
Read their lips, now let it linger
Is there anything that makes them sound
Sincere?
Come on, tightly hold your hand
Take a deep breath, give them the finger
Are you worried that your thoughts are not quite clear?
(twich)
Overlooked, unfit apperance

I remember falling
I remember marching
Like a one man army
Through the blaze
I know I'm coughing
I believe in something
I don't wanna remember falling
For their lies

Unbutton your clothes
Undress your soul, shouw them your vigor
Are these inhibitions easiest to fear?
Take this gasoline tin
Head up high, walk like a winner
Let the bare feet be the last sound
That they hear
(twich)
Overlooked, unfit apperance

I remember falling
I remember marching
Like a one man army
Through the blaze
I know I'm coughing
I believe in something
I don't wanna remember falling
For their lies

For their lies, for their lies
*repeat*
- "One Man Army," Our Lady Peace

Because it's Ashley's song. Because Technomancy said so. Because I frighten myself sometimes when it hurts this much. Because it's music, and there is no greater thing in all of heaven or earth. Because I'm still looking for God and all that's left behind the couch is lint. But really, just because.

Von and Ari'i want more angst, but I refuse to give in to them. Setzer and Shadow are debating the merits of further fluff (Setzer is for, Shadow is vehemently against) since I owe them something more than the rampant silliness below for missing Setzer's birthday. Len and Jubal and Opal and Tyler want hurt/comfort and bizarre parental relationships...and Spots wants a real story, not the amazingly random world of Renegades.

So sad, too bad, I ain't doin' jack shite- though I'm really tempted to write a death scene for Setzer (of course he gets a death scene, he's too much of a melodramatic diva to not get a death scene) but that would just be horribly morbid and I've got at least five different timelines developing simultaneously for the one basic concept. >_< Think I'll continue to edit the bit of randomness I did while writing the Sappho paper and will eventually post it on ff.net.

Also: "One Man Army," Our Lady Peace? Why the fuck did it take me so many years to download this song? This is like, better than "Harder to Breathe," and I adore that song to so many pieces it isn't even funny. I mean, dude. It really is Ashley's song. Cool.

Actually, Our Lady Peace in general is pretty cool. *pleased* Music huzzah!

...Okay, so they're Canadian and that's like, thirty thousand points in their favor...but they're also responsible for "Somewhere Out There," and I detest that song. Hm. A dilemma. I think I'll mark it up to them going more mainstreamish and forgive them for it, because "Starseed" and "Thief"? Awesome.

Three Drabbles and Some Rampant Silliness
--------------------------

There was something in the way she moved, he decided. Something that called to mind endless waves on a shore of soft, sweet sand that rang with open invitation: Come, dance upon my shore and be happy, be free. From a distance, watching her move, he could see an ocean of possibilities ecompassed in the scope of her arms, her hands, her hips.

From a distance, he could pretend that the implicit invitation in her gestures was open to him, as well, until she approached and he could see the way she cut through his heart with the inevitable ice of her eyes.
(Von and Ari'i)
---------------------------

Back from an assignment, and still not back in shape. Choose your target. Aim. Throw. See the knife sprout like a daisy out of the dummy's forehead. Aim again, strike true this time, through the throat, then through the chest, then beneath the arm through a chink in the armor that is every warrior's greatest weakness, if you don't count wine and women and the lure of opium. An assassin must choose her weapons well; there was a time for blades and a time for heated glances beneath smoking eyes.

In the corner she could see her father, keeping his hands to himself by the wall. He shifted slightly, and a rack of knives ten feet away clattered to the floor. Beside her, a classmate decapitated yet another practice dummy with a slightly overexuberant throw. Both of them were scolded soundly, and she smiled to herself. It was good to be home.
(Foxbird, training, and Blaine)
--------------------------------------

Virgil resigned himself to a lifetime of lemon pepper tofu and tomatoes. Trent always gave him a look when he suggested they eat fish, and he couldn't stand it when Trent gave him that particular look. Fish eyes did not lend naturally to puppy-dog expressions, but Trent was talented in ways he could only guess at.

Chicken was out of the question, too, because then Perry would sulk or cry or stare listlessly out to sea for days on end, and just about the only thing that could distract him was a nest full of baby seagulls, and those were rather difficult to procure on the open ocean in the middle of September.

Nova didn't care what she ate, so long as it wasn't moving much. Virgil always had to promise that the tomatoes were very dead before serving them to her, because she didn't like the way they bled all over the plate.

Life had tasted so much better when he lived alone.
(Virgil, after becoming pirate king)
-----------------------------------------

"Run along, Relm, I'm going to divest your father of his clothing now." Setzer waved his hand at her absently and she sauntered off with her sketchpad, giggling.

Shadow glared and wished, not for the first time, that he could set things on fire with the power of his eyes. Setzer's jacket would probably blaze quite nicely once it got started. "You will do no such thing."

Setzer remained unrepentantly fire retardant and grinned, sliding his arms around Shadow's waist. "Would you have preferred I let her stay and watch? That's a bit twisted even for you, don't you think?"

"I sometimes wonder if you even understand the concept of discretion." He was almost smiling, though, and Setzer had gotten quite skilled at reading his non-expressions.

"Never heard of it. Must be something you picked up in some strange, foreign land, because it certainly doesn't happen around here." Setzer's grin had become the personification of wickedness as he toyed with Shadow's shirt ties. "Perhaps you'd like to move this to a more comfortable place, like, oh...the front hall? The carpeting is quite soft..."

The ninja shook his head. "Actually...I have a headache. I think I'll go take a nap." He gently pushed the other man away.

Setzer gaped, for once at a loss for words.

Shadow gave him a one-fingered salute on his way out and shut the door behind him.

"That wasn't very nice." He looked down to where Relm sat on the floor with her sketchpad. He resisted the urge to ruffle her hair and settled for an expression of vague, aloof amusement.

"He deserved it. Shouldn't you be eavesdropping on someone else's conversation?" He wasn't sure how to deal with bratty little girls, particularly not his own.

"Well, now that the two of you aint' doing nothing interestin'..." She flipped her sketchpad shut and scrambled to her feet. "See ya later, pops!" She'd clearly inherited his own talent of expiditious flight.

Shadow sighed and glared at her retreating figure. "Pops?" Oh, for heat vision goggles...life would be so much easier with heat vision goggles...
(Setzer gets no nookie)
--------------------

Yeah, yeah, Von and Ari'i do sleep together, but that was a one-shot deal because they're both too bitter, jaded, and screwed up to ever admit they love each other. (Song of Shadows: look, it's het, I swear! Just, y'know, ignore all those longing glances Von keeps giving everyone else.)

Blaine has managed to stab himself with a quarterstaff. He's not allowed to shave without supervision. Naturally his daughter is one of the most talented assassins in the guild.

Poor, poor Virgil. He doesn't deserve half the shit that happens to him, but at least he gets a happy ending. If you could call living with Trent, Perry, and Nova happy, that is...At least he gets to call himself a Pirate King. He's even got the silly hat to go with it.

Every ninja secretly wants heat vision goggles. Why should Shadow be any exception? (Had a very hard time not having either one of them refer to the other as 'wifey'. Because Shadow totally pulled a 'wifey' there, and it really wasn't very nice of him at all. Setzer had it coming, though; the beginning of that particular scene involves lawyers and signet rings, and it's all just very, very silly.)

I like how I can go from angst to complete and utter silliness in under a thousand words. Hee.

art!

whee, painter.

Sometimes, you just get lost in the possibilities, the what haves and what ifs and whyevers and could I, should I, why didn't I sort of thoughts. You start to follow a thought, a barely whispered doubt and then the next thing you know you're six more years in the future, twelve years too late and you're asking yourself, "Is this who I want to be now? Is this who I'm going to be? Am I happy with my life like this, is this what I want, is this what I need, who am I, really? In the end, do I even know? Can I change it, can I stop it, can I be someone else, for a moment, maybe? Can I even be myself?"

And then you stop, because if you don't stop you'll die and you'll never know what it's like to be old enough to think those thoughts and feel those fears. Well, aside from the fact that you're feeling them now, but you hope that six years from now you'll be feeling those doubts about reasonable things, mature things, understandable things. Not the childish obsessions of a girl too dependent upon others to break away and create her own life.

Thinking in circles isn't a Tuesday thing, really. It's just a life thing, and I rather wish it weren't my life that were doing it.

So, tuesdays. Tuesdays in February, no less, and I know that if I go back into last February, I'll have a rant about how much I hate this month. Short and brutal, that's what it is, and I despise it. My dislike of Tuesdays has to do with marching band, I think. I don't really know or care anymore.

My Tuesdays have always been horribly busy; this isn't a bad thing, in and of itself, it's just always been the case. So by the end of the day I'm exhausted, but it's a good sort of exhaustion, the productive sort.

Then there comes the time when I have nothing to do, and I'm just hanging after all of this running around and thinking. I'm too exhausted to think straight, so I just think in circles and end up thinking myself into a corner.

I hate being cornered. I start to second guess everything and this makes me waspish and irritable, which is generally unpleasant for me and everyone around me, so then I just sit and stare blankly at the nearest inanimate object, because I can't screw up too badly if I'm doing that.

edited before publishing: When found in her natural habitat, engaged in the common pastime of sulking, it is best to throw something at the wild Vera's head or, if one's aim is off, to simply hug her. That is actually documented as being more successful in distracting her, though she has been known to snap at those attempting it.

Oi. Dramatic little brat, aren't I?

I've figured it out! Neil Finn and Crowded House are like a proto-Duncan Sheik, who is like the wiser, more talented but less pop-oriented older brother of John Mayer, who is actually a Bizarro Jason Mraz, only Jason Mraz is better because his last name has fewer vowels and he gets gnomes and roosters. John Mayer doesn't have gnomes or roosters. Clearly he sucks.

But really, John Mayer, Jason Mraz- same initials, kinda similar music, vaguely similar appearance...one of them is a Bizarro version of the other, you can't deny it.

Early Crowded House does not resemble early Duncan Sheik in any way, aside from the one-hit wonder thing and possibly (though not likely) "Hole in the River," which is the closest early Crowded House gets to being moody. I think. It's been a while since I listened to their first album, since I can only take so much amateurish 80's pop rock with the occasional jazzish styling. I guess early Crowded House is a little bit like recent Duncan Sheik only, y'know, nowhere near as good.

And Duncan isn't half as weird as Neil Finn.

Just trying to draw lines between the music...the connections amuse me sometimes.

More lyrics! Awesome song, with an awesome amv to go with it...it fills me with great amounts of joy, and I've no idea why.

Maybe life is like a ride on a freeway
Dodging bullets while you're trying to find your way
Everyone's around, but no one does a damn thing
It brings me down, but I won't let them

If I seem bleak
Well you'd be correct
And if I don't speak
It's cause I can't disconnect
But I won't be burned by the reflection
Of the fire in your eyes
As you're staring at the sun

When I ran I didn't feel like a runaway
When I escaped I didn't feel like I got away
There's more to living than only surviving
Maybe I'm not there, but I'm still trying

Though you hear me
I don't think that you relate
My will is something
That you can't confiscate
So forgive me, but I won't be frustrated
By destruction in your eyes
As you're staring at the sun

*repeat as necessary*
-"Staring at the Sun," The Offspring

Couldn't take the previous crap any longer. Back to unoriginal templates. Excuse the hugeness of the text; I may change it later.

Soup!

Alcohol, my permanent accessory
Alcohol, a party time necessity
Alcohol, alternative to feeling like yourself
O Alcohol, I still drink to your health.
Refrain:
I love you more than I did the week before I discovered alcohol.
Forget the café lattés, screw the raspberry iced tea
A Malibu and Coke for you, a g&t for me
Alcohol, your songs resolve like my life never will
When someone else is picking up the bill
(Refrain)
O Alcohol, would you please forgive me,
But while I cannot love myself
I'll use something else
I thought that alcohol was just for those with nothing else to do
I thought that drinking just to get drunk was a waste of precious
booze
But now I know that there's a time and there's a place where I can
choose
To walk the fine line between self control and self abuse
(Go, go, go, go, go, etc)
(Refrain)
Would you please ignore that you found me on the floor trying on your
camisole.
O Alcohol, would you please forgive me,
But while I cannot love myself
I'll use something else
Would you please forgive me?
-"Alcohol," Bare Naked Ladies

It's a great song, it really is. I highly recommend it.