Spoons, assbabies, and fic
Not necessarily in that order.
I now have spoons, of both the tea and soup variety. I also have salad forks, dinner forks, breadknives, pickle skewers, crepe flippers, hors d'orves matches, garlic smooshers, toast tongs, wasabi plates and one of those things that you use to drip honey onto other things. I am SET, people.
Well, as far as the kitchen utensils go, anyway. *eyeballs the entirely empty living room*
Moving right along,have you ever wondered what would happen if the Beatles and Led Zeppelin ever had assbabies? Don't worry, neither did I. But then I saw this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WfoccRna6I
I am also, come hell or high water, going to follow through on the freaking fic that's been whacking at the back of my skull for the last six months whether anyone likes it or not.
The city bus trundled away from the curb, leaving behind a lone passenger on the Rue de Colombe. It wasn't yet dawn and the city was shrouded in dirty fog, but an observer watched anyway as the figure paused to take in his surroundings before bearing south toward a newsagent who was just beginning to set up his kiosk for the day.
The passenger purchased a map and a newspaper, paid in cash, then walked a few paces down the street before slipping into a narrow alley between a warehouse and an office suite. The observer almost missed this move, as it was executed with a smooth casualness that was meant to attract no attention--not that there was any attention to attract this early in the morning on this particular street. Aside from the newsagent and a couple of homeless individuals sleeping it off in doorways, the street was deserted.
At the Hôtel de Rossaline, which had once held a quaint charm and was now, like most of the district, falling into seedy disrepair, the observer stepped away from the window. There would be at least an hour before the disappearing passenger would reveal himself again, and it would be no use looking out for him before then.
That left some time to think, and to plan, time that was in short supply. The observer, wishing to make the most of that time, picked up the courtesy phone and dialed room service. "Hello, this is room 419. Yes, good morning. Could you send up some coffee? Thank you. And if someone by the name of Heero Yuy shows up asking for me, send him right up."
Yeah, there's more, but it's scattered and I'm tired of getting up at 4:30 a.m. to go to work and I'm about to slip into Whiny Baby mode, so I'm checking out. G'night, all.
I now have spoons, of both the tea and soup variety. I also have salad forks, dinner forks, breadknives, pickle skewers, crepe flippers, hors d'orves matches, garlic smooshers, toast tongs, wasabi plates and one of those things that you use to drip honey onto other things. I am SET, people.
Well, as far as the kitchen utensils go, anyway. *eyeballs the entirely empty living room*
Moving right along,have you ever wondered what would happen if the Beatles and Led Zeppelin ever had assbabies? Don't worry, neither did I. But then I saw this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WfoccRna6I
I am also, come hell or high water, going to follow through on the freaking fic that's been whacking at the back of my skull for the last six months whether anyone likes it or not.
The city bus trundled away from the curb, leaving behind a lone passenger on the Rue de Colombe. It wasn't yet dawn and the city was shrouded in dirty fog, but an observer watched anyway as the figure paused to take in his surroundings before bearing south toward a newsagent who was just beginning to set up his kiosk for the day.
The passenger purchased a map and a newspaper, paid in cash, then walked a few paces down the street before slipping into a narrow alley between a warehouse and an office suite. The observer almost missed this move, as it was executed with a smooth casualness that was meant to attract no attention--not that there was any attention to attract this early in the morning on this particular street. Aside from the newsagent and a couple of homeless individuals sleeping it off in doorways, the street was deserted.
At the Hôtel de Rossaline, which had once held a quaint charm and was now, like most of the district, falling into seedy disrepair, the observer stepped away from the window. There would be at least an hour before the disappearing passenger would reveal himself again, and it would be no use looking out for him before then.
That left some time to think, and to plan, time that was in short supply. The observer, wishing to make the most of that time, picked up the courtesy phone and dialed room service. "Hello, this is room 419. Yes, good morning. Could you send up some coffee? Thank you. And if someone by the name of Heero Yuy shows up asking for me, send him right up."
Yeah, there's more, but it's scattered and I'm tired of getting up at 4:30 a.m. to go to work and I'm about to slip into Whiny Baby mode, so I'm checking out. G'night, all.