i am the clown with the tear away face!
1. Fox will be at Dragon*Con, but since no one knows what she looks like, give up trying to find her. She is a ninja.
Amand-r: Haahahahha, you're going to find yourself at the hotel bar at 4 am, drunk and chatting up someone dressed as Boba Fett. I BET YOU WILL.
51stCenturyFox: SWEET.
Amand-r:YOU, LIFTY, RM AND BOBA FETT.
51stCenturyFox: It'll be like that Chewbacca fic.
2. I signed my stories up for that DVD commentary thing, over there. Nothing is off limits.
3. I'm pimping my Yami no Matsuei/Torchwood crossover again, because I don't think it got enough love. It's Ianto/Tatsumi.
4. Okay, so for the past few weeks I have been unpredictably and inexplicably breaking into hives. It's never consistent in location-the back of the knee, the wrist, the inner thigh, etc, and its never consistent in duration or timing. I have been going insane. They're itchy, I try not to scratch, I use hydrocortisone, I smack my legs. Jesus I smack my thighs so much that I look like I'm in one of those German log-chopping dances or some horrible hoedown. Srsly, the cast of Hee-Haw called an offered me a job.
So I'm in the shower at 2 am last night, trying desperately to do something about the fact that my calves are covered in hives, and back of my neck feels as if it's been attacked by a hoarde of spiders with laughing gas venom. I've been hitting myself so often that I'm wonder if I might not develop a spanking fetish. Then I wonder if I could get away with writing an Agent Johnson/Alice Moretti spanking fic. Then I soap up my…that netting ball. I shan't call it a poof. I guess I just did. Whatevs.
I'm looking at the bottle of Snow Fairy while I pour it on-blah blah angelic, wicked fruitiness, iridescent sparkles---
Make that record screech noise. Do it. It's funny. Rrrrrrt?
IRIDESCENT SPAR….I tip the bottle and sure enough, it's filled with this white iridescent glitter, miniscule pieces, really, that blend in with the peach colour of the gel. If they hadn't coagulated at the bottom like fucking sediment, I would have never seen them in captivity. It all makes sense now. I have been lathering myself down for close to 4 weeks with the equivalent of soapy snow globe water. I bet I'd glow under a fucking black light. It's like rolling around on a sheet of goddamn pink insulation.
SO, I pull out my trusty "so minty it burns your nether regions" shower gel and go to town in a manner not unlike the decontamination scene from Silkwood. If you're under 30, I bet you won't get that joke.
I feel better already.
WTF, Lush? I see that it is discontinued, but I have told you REPEATEDLY: no one wants glitter on their vag unless they're Ziggy Stardust or Jenna Jamison at a RuPaul concert. And to put your miniscule shrapnel in a shower gel? Jesus. And before you're all, "oh Amand-r, didn't you read the label?" I say NO, IT WAS A GIFT. I DID NOT SELECT IT. ALSO, DO YOU READ THE SIDE OF YOUR CEREAL BOX FOR LABELS THAT SAY 'WARNING LIVE GRENADE INSIDE' BEFORE YOU OPEN IT UP AND STICK YOUR FINGERS IN THERE?
I THOUGHT NOT. 'CAUTION: THESE FARM FRESH EGGS NOW COME WITH 100% MORE MUSTARD GAS! A TEARFUL IN EVERY SHELL.' THIS IS WHAT I AM SAYING.
HAHAAAHAHA IT'S FUNNY.
5. The state of the writing. I am writing. It's like breathing. It's all FANTASTIC. It falls out without any effort, which probably means that it sucks. I'm not planning it, per se, beyond a loose outline, but symbols and metaphor are retconning themselves in (I don't write linear-style) as I move through the texts, and I don't have to think about them at all.
1.
"I think the argument that you're trying to make is null and void. You're drunk."
She twirls the bottle on her finger, spinning the liquid in a swirl as it hangs from the crook. "Bullshit."
"Really. You're not allowed to think about anime and Foucault at the same time when you're intoxicated. There's a law."
Her hand comes to rest on the concrete edge of the step, a dull flap-slap that clicks when her ring scrapes across the pebbling. "Where did you learn of this law?"
John smiles then, and he watches her fall backwards on the step so that the star-filled sky is expanded in front of her like a movie screen rolling down in a lecture room wall. "I read it on a bathroom stall." He shrugs. "In my defense, it was a bathroom in CMU's computer lab, so I think whoever wrote it probably knew what they were talking about."
"Was there otaku come all over the walls?" she asks.
"I dunno," John says, "I didn't lick it."
A small sound drifts through the closed windows, threading out to them in the darkness. The light in the parking lot turns on and off as if someone in another country is idly flipping a light switch every three minutes or so.
"She's up," John says.
She lifts her head enough to pour the remains of the bottle in her mouth. It's that shit at the end that she hates, but can't bring herself to pour out into the dead grass. "She'll go back to sleep."
Sure enough, three minutes later, the light flickers again and the crying dies down. She opens another beer and lets it dangle from loose fingers, arm lying down her chest to hang between her legs.
"It's January," John says to her then, his face shaded in the parking lot light when it blinks off. "You shouldn't be out here without shoes."
She lifts her feet up and stares at them so that they are silhouetted against the ceiling canvas of stars. "Neither should you," she tells him without returning his stare. Her toenail polish is chipped.
John shrugs. "I'm dead. Did you just forget?" he mumbles before his hand catches her wrist. The bottle hits the concrete but it doesn't break. It never does.
***
So yeah.
Is it porn teims yet?
Haahahahaha it is! HOW FORTUITOUS!
Amand-r: Haahahahha, you're going to find yourself at the hotel bar at 4 am, drunk and chatting up someone dressed as Boba Fett. I BET YOU WILL.
51stCenturyFox: SWEET.
Amand-r:YOU, LIFTY, RM AND BOBA FETT.
51stCenturyFox: It'll be like that Chewbacca fic.
2. I signed my stories up for that DVD commentary thing, over there. Nothing is off limits.
3. I'm pimping my Yami no Matsuei/Torchwood crossover again, because I don't think it got enough love. It's Ianto/Tatsumi.
4. Okay, so for the past few weeks I have been unpredictably and inexplicably breaking into hives. It's never consistent in location-the back of the knee, the wrist, the inner thigh, etc, and its never consistent in duration or timing. I have been going insane. They're itchy, I try not to scratch, I use hydrocortisone, I smack my legs. Jesus I smack my thighs so much that I look like I'm in one of those German log-chopping dances or some horrible hoedown. Srsly, the cast of Hee-Haw called an offered me a job.
So I'm in the shower at 2 am last night, trying desperately to do something about the fact that my calves are covered in hives, and back of my neck feels as if it's been attacked by a hoarde of spiders with laughing gas venom. I've been hitting myself so often that I'm wonder if I might not develop a spanking fetish. Then I wonder if I could get away with writing an Agent Johnson/Alice Moretti spanking fic. Then I soap up my…that netting ball. I shan't call it a poof. I guess I just did. Whatevs.
I'm looking at the bottle of Snow Fairy while I pour it on-blah blah angelic, wicked fruitiness, iridescent sparkles---
Make that record screech noise. Do it. It's funny. Rrrrrrt?
IRIDESCENT SPAR….I tip the bottle and sure enough, it's filled with this white iridescent glitter, miniscule pieces, really, that blend in with the peach colour of the gel. If they hadn't coagulated at the bottom like fucking sediment, I would have never seen them in captivity. It all makes sense now. I have been lathering myself down for close to 4 weeks with the equivalent of soapy snow globe water. I bet I'd glow under a fucking black light. It's like rolling around on a sheet of goddamn pink insulation.
SO, I pull out my trusty "so minty it burns your nether regions" shower gel and go to town in a manner not unlike the decontamination scene from Silkwood. If you're under 30, I bet you won't get that joke.
I feel better already.
WTF, Lush? I see that it is discontinued, but I have told you REPEATEDLY: no one wants glitter on their vag unless they're Ziggy Stardust or Jenna Jamison at a RuPaul concert. And to put your miniscule shrapnel in a shower gel? Jesus. And before you're all, "oh Amand-r, didn't you read the label?" I say NO, IT WAS A GIFT. I DID NOT SELECT IT. ALSO, DO YOU READ THE SIDE OF YOUR CEREAL BOX FOR LABELS THAT SAY 'WARNING LIVE GRENADE INSIDE' BEFORE YOU OPEN IT UP AND STICK YOUR FINGERS IN THERE?
I THOUGHT NOT. 'CAUTION: THESE FARM FRESH EGGS NOW COME WITH 100% MORE MUSTARD GAS! A TEARFUL IN EVERY SHELL.' THIS IS WHAT I AM SAYING.
HAHAAAHAHA IT'S FUNNY.
5. The state of the writing. I am writing. It's like breathing. It's all FANTASTIC. It falls out without any effort, which probably means that it sucks. I'm not planning it, per se, beyond a loose outline, but symbols and metaphor are retconning themselves in (I don't write linear-style) as I move through the texts, and I don't have to think about them at all.
1.
"I think the argument that you're trying to make is null and void. You're drunk."
She twirls the bottle on her finger, spinning the liquid in a swirl as it hangs from the crook. "Bullshit."
"Really. You're not allowed to think about anime and Foucault at the same time when you're intoxicated. There's a law."
Her hand comes to rest on the concrete edge of the step, a dull flap-slap that clicks when her ring scrapes across the pebbling. "Where did you learn of this law?"
John smiles then, and he watches her fall backwards on the step so that the star-filled sky is expanded in front of her like a movie screen rolling down in a lecture room wall. "I read it on a bathroom stall." He shrugs. "In my defense, it was a bathroom in CMU's computer lab, so I think whoever wrote it probably knew what they were talking about."
"Was there otaku come all over the walls?" she asks.
"I dunno," John says, "I didn't lick it."
A small sound drifts through the closed windows, threading out to them in the darkness. The light in the parking lot turns on and off as if someone in another country is idly flipping a light switch every three minutes or so.
"She's up," John says.
She lifts her head enough to pour the remains of the bottle in her mouth. It's that shit at the end that she hates, but can't bring herself to pour out into the dead grass. "She'll go back to sleep."
Sure enough, three minutes later, the light flickers again and the crying dies down. She opens another beer and lets it dangle from loose fingers, arm lying down her chest to hang between her legs.
"It's January," John says to her then, his face shaded in the parking lot light when it blinks off. "You shouldn't be out here without shoes."
She lifts her feet up and stares at them so that they are silhouetted against the ceiling canvas of stars. "Neither should you," she tells him without returning his stare. Her toenail polish is chipped.
John shrugs. "I'm dead. Did you just forget?" he mumbles before his hand catches her wrist. The bottle hits the concrete but it doesn't break. It never does.
***
So yeah.
Is it porn teims yet?
Haahahahaha it is! HOW FORTUITOUS!