Fic: Buy My Fucking Cookies (Torchwood, Mander, V, U, eBay, TDAWOM, cookies)
Title: Buy My Fucking Cookies
Fandom: Mander fandom
Characters: Mander, Vstroyer, You, eBay, THE DAMN ASSHOLE WOT OUTBID ME, cookies, the computer
Rating: W for WOE and C for COOKIE (it's good enough for me)
Wordcount: 1000
Author's Notes: I am totes not joking. Warning for butter.
Summary: I HAVE A STORY OF DEFEAT AND TRIUMPH TO TELL.
Once upon a time, a girl named Mander wanted seasons one and two of Torchwood on DVD (Three is optional.) But lo, they were pricey and she could not justify it in her mind.
And then! Mander discovered that season one was for sale on eBay. Rejoice! Here it comes! Ring Bells! Bang the drums (slowly)! And using the Buy it Now! Feature, she procured season one for 28 dollars.
Season two was being wilier. It ranged in price from 40 to 80 dollars. 28 bucks is one thing, but 40 is altogether another. So Mander despaired of ever getting TWS2 for a rate she could justify.
Then, from the darkness, came a bid on TWS2 starting at 10.99 with one day left in bidding! She placed her bid and forgot about it until this morning.
An hour left 'til the close, she was still the high bidder, but she raised her high bid just in case. Then she prayed to the goddess of…consumerist greed or summat and went for a walk.
OH BUSTED! FOR OUR INTREPID HEROIN(E), FOR WHILST SHE WAS WALKING, SHE WAS OUTBID AND THE AUCTION ENDED.
"Sonofabitch!" cried she.
"Don't say that," replied Vstroyer of Worlds, "say 'crackers'."
"I am a grown up and I can say bad words!" shouted the stropped eBayer.
It seemed that darkness had settled on Chinghaüs, like a thick smoke after a volcano, or that grease that coats the frying pan after you make a lot of bacon. Tumbleweeds rolled through the cavernous windows of Mander's soul. Some dude played a banjo. Maybe a zither. Sadly. Yeah, like that. This, dear reader, is the defeat part.
***
THREE DAYS LATER:
Mander noticed that her caps lock key was sticking. So she pried that muther off and pulled fifteen metric tonnes of dust and cat hair from her keyboard. Then she noticed that there was a lot of dirt under there. She started to pry up keys. It was like picking at scabs. Or peeling off one of those fucking dog bone shaped metal strips from a CD case. Remember those? If you were born after 1987, probably not.
So there was only one thing to do: turn on some Buffy, get some rubbing alcohol and q-tips, and go to town.
All was well, until Buffy and Faith had a big fight and Mander pulled the whole mechanism up on her insert keys, and also managed to rip the little rubber doodad on her down button.
Now reader, I don't know how often you use the down button, but Mander has used it so much the little down arrow has worn off. Now, despite her best efforts, the button was now good for three presses, and then five angry mashings, and then it was dead.
Mander wept. She was going to have to bump up getting a laptop. Her netbook got no Internet signal, so she could not use that. In the end, she jerry-rigged a wireless keyboard and mouse, and now it looked like this:
It was strangely retro, and her future was so bright, she had to wear shades.
This, my friends was the staged pity part that had nothing to do with Torchwood. Except that it was probably Torchwood's fault. And whilst she was laying on the guilt, she would like to add that Vista sucks and had not installed the service pack that it had been trying to install since April 2010. This meant that she got (and still gets) error messages from Media Store update about fifty times a day. Feel pity.
ONE DAY LATER:
As Mander sat and contemplated her monetary issues (really, 350 bucks for a computer was too high, and she was cheap. Buying season two of Torchwood was starting to feel like a pipe dream. She started to play around with her eBay settings (sadly, there was no "EXTERMINATE THE PERSON WHO OUTBID YOU" button), and realised that selling things was hard and arduous. As she looked over her recipe for snickerdoodles (Hah, she said "doodle"), she realised that no matter how many miles she walked on the treadmill, she was never going to lose weight if she kept eating her own baking.
It was true, making cookies was a hobby now, and she liked to do it. But when a batch made five dozen once a week, and family members had started to say, "please, we can't eat any more cookies. We are getting fat," what could one do?
I bet you thought this was going no where.
[CLEVER REFERENCE TO THE TITLE OF THE FIC, POSSIBLY WITH A QUOTE BY SUSAN SONTAG, AND IN LOWER CASE.]
That's right. I want to unload my cookies on you people. AND POSSIBLY GUILT-FREE MYSELF INTO BUYING TWS2 (three is optional). And maybe, just maybe, I can get my ass in gear to start saving for a computer THAT DOES NOT BECOME NUCLEAR HOT WHEN I AM WATCHING COMMUNITY ON HULU.
HOW IT WILL WORK:
Every Sunday there will be a post when I bake cookies. It will have an offer, and pictures. I usually have about three dozen extra. If you like the look of them and want a dozen, claim it and send the payment via Paypal. I will head out to the post office Monday, and you should have them by Thursday. Cookies are rolled in saran, then foil enclosed in a ziploc and then sealed in a recycled paperboard box. They are frozen until I leave for the post office Monday to ensure freshness by the time they get to you. If there is a holiday Monday I won't be baking Sunday.
Experimental shipping revealed that it was about $2-3 bucks to ship, so in order to make money, I will be charging $5 for a generous dozen, what I call a lagniappe. If you want them all, I can possibly work out something else.
Previous examples of my work include:
Madeleines:
Linzer biscuits (pre jam)
Garam Masala chocolate gingerbread:
Black and whites:
THAT IS WHAT I CALL COOKIES.
Occasionally I experiment with gluten-free baking.
This sounds dumb, but if you want to know if I suck as a baker, I have sent cookies to several people online, and they seemed to like them. Maybe they could comment here, but I shall not obligate them.
Occasionally I make biscotti, which I would definitely ship because I hate biscotti.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME. OH, AND DREMIEL --vertical bread:
THE END. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW.
Fandom: Mander fandom
Characters: Mander, Vstroyer, You, eBay, THE DAMN ASSHOLE WOT OUTBID ME, cookies, the computer
Rating: W for WOE and C for COOKIE (it's good enough for me)
Wordcount: 1000
Author's Notes: I am totes not joking. Warning for butter.
Summary: I HAVE A STORY OF DEFEAT AND TRIUMPH TO TELL.
Once upon a time, a girl named Mander wanted seasons one and two of Torchwood on DVD (Three is optional.) But lo, they were pricey and she could not justify it in her mind.
And then! Mander discovered that season one was for sale on eBay. Rejoice! Here it comes! Ring Bells! Bang the drums (slowly)! And using the Buy it Now! Feature, she procured season one for 28 dollars.
Season two was being wilier. It ranged in price from 40 to 80 dollars. 28 bucks is one thing, but 40 is altogether another. So Mander despaired of ever getting TWS2 for a rate she could justify.
Then, from the darkness, came a bid on TWS2 starting at 10.99 with one day left in bidding! She placed her bid and forgot about it until this morning.
An hour left 'til the close, she was still the high bidder, but she raised her high bid just in case. Then she prayed to the goddess of…consumerist greed or summat and went for a walk.
OH BUSTED! FOR OUR INTREPID HEROIN(E), FOR WHILST SHE WAS WALKING, SHE WAS OUTBID AND THE AUCTION ENDED.
"Sonofabitch!" cried she.
"Don't say that," replied Vstroyer of Worlds, "say 'crackers'."
"I am a grown up and I can say bad words!" shouted the stropped eBayer.
It seemed that darkness had settled on Chinghaüs, like a thick smoke after a volcano, or that grease that coats the frying pan after you make a lot of bacon. Tumbleweeds rolled through the cavernous windows of Mander's soul. Some dude played a banjo. Maybe a zither. Sadly. Yeah, like that. This, dear reader, is the defeat part.
***
THREE DAYS LATER:
Mander noticed that her caps lock key was sticking. So she pried that muther off and pulled fifteen metric tonnes of dust and cat hair from her keyboard. Then she noticed that there was a lot of dirt under there. She started to pry up keys. It was like picking at scabs. Or peeling off one of those fucking dog bone shaped metal strips from a CD case. Remember those? If you were born after 1987, probably not.
So there was only one thing to do: turn on some Buffy, get some rubbing alcohol and q-tips, and go to town.
All was well, until Buffy and Faith had a big fight and Mander pulled the whole mechanism up on her insert keys, and also managed to rip the little rubber doodad on her down button.
Now reader, I don't know how often you use the down button, but Mander has used it so much the little down arrow has worn off. Now, despite her best efforts, the button was now good for three presses, and then five angry mashings, and then it was dead.
Mander wept. She was going to have to bump up getting a laptop. Her netbook got no Internet signal, so she could not use that. In the end, she jerry-rigged a wireless keyboard and mouse, and now it looked like this:
It was strangely retro, and her future was so bright, she had to wear shades.
This, my friends was the staged pity part that had nothing to do with Torchwood. Except that it was probably Torchwood's fault. And whilst she was laying on the guilt, she would like to add that Vista sucks and had not installed the service pack that it had been trying to install since April 2010. This meant that she got (and still gets) error messages from Media Store update about fifty times a day. Feel pity.
ONE DAY LATER:
As Mander sat and contemplated her monetary issues (really, 350 bucks for a computer was too high, and she was cheap. Buying season two of Torchwood was starting to feel like a pipe dream. She started to play around with her eBay settings (sadly, there was no "EXTERMINATE THE PERSON WHO OUTBID YOU" button), and realised that selling things was hard and arduous. As she looked over her recipe for snickerdoodles (Hah, she said "doodle"), she realised that no matter how many miles she walked on the treadmill, she was never going to lose weight if she kept eating her own baking.
It was true, making cookies was a hobby now, and she liked to do it. But when a batch made five dozen once a week, and family members had started to say, "please, we can't eat any more cookies. We are getting fat," what could one do?
I bet you thought this was going no where.
[CLEVER REFERENCE TO THE TITLE OF THE FIC, POSSIBLY WITH A QUOTE BY SUSAN SONTAG, AND IN LOWER CASE.]
That's right. I want to unload my cookies on you people. AND POSSIBLY GUILT-FREE MYSELF INTO BUYING TWS2 (three is optional). And maybe, just maybe, I can get my ass in gear to start saving for a computer THAT DOES NOT BECOME NUCLEAR HOT WHEN I AM WATCHING COMMUNITY ON HULU.
HOW IT WILL WORK:
Every Sunday there will be a post when I bake cookies. It will have an offer, and pictures. I usually have about three dozen extra. If you like the look of them and want a dozen, claim it and send the payment via Paypal. I will head out to the post office Monday, and you should have them by Thursday. Cookies are rolled in saran, then foil enclosed in a ziploc and then sealed in a recycled paperboard box. They are frozen until I leave for the post office Monday to ensure freshness by the time they get to you. If there is a holiday Monday I won't be baking Sunday.
Experimental shipping revealed that it was about $2-3 bucks to ship, so in order to make money, I will be charging $5 for a generous dozen, what I call a lagniappe. If you want them all, I can possibly work out something else.
Previous examples of my work include:
Madeleines:
Linzer biscuits (pre jam)
Garam Masala chocolate gingerbread:
Black and whites:
THAT IS WHAT I CALL COOKIES.
Occasionally I experiment with gluten-free baking.
This sounds dumb, but if you want to know if I suck as a baker, I have sent cookies to several people online, and they seemed to like them. Maybe they could comment here, but I shall not obligate them.
Occasionally I make biscotti, which I would definitely ship because I hate biscotti.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME. OH, AND DREMIEL --vertical bread:
THE END. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW.