Well, this is fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here goes hoping...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick note on Boffo:

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

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

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

:: how jedi are you? ::

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

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

They're girly.

What
are your characters?


Quiz made by Zarah.






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

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


They're violent.

What
are your characters?


Quiz made by Zarah.





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It just makes you wonder, sometimes.

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

"YOU'RE A LOSER!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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