broken-spined Venetian blinds.
Dear friendslist,
Shut the fuck up now.
Seriously, the universe has decided to simultaneously kick one of my friends in the crotch and take away one of my favourite toys who also happens to be said friend, and you're getting on my nerves. If I see one more post waving around the rape statistics which everyone in fandom who has eyes has now read more than a million times every time we have this fucking "debate", I will make the single most offensive post imaginable just to get you the fuck out of my face. Either say something new or eat a bag of dicks.
No fucking love,
Derek "hateful misogynist bitchwhore" Des Anges.
(see, this is why I should keep my internal monologues internal. They do mostly amount to "fucking die, all of you")
Less irritably:
Received an email with [The Used] found you in the subject line and nearly had a goddamn heartattack until I read it and realised it was just phelixstar saying hi. NGRGH BLOOD PRESSURE.
In an attempt to get writing moving again, I did a few snapshots:
It's not the first industry party Quinn's been thrown out of and it probably won't be the last. People are touchy whores who put too much value on having their carpets unsoaked by urine and un ... covered in broken glass. He sits down on the wall as soon as the security guy stops shoving him, and lights up. There's a "NO SMOKING" sign six feet to his left but Quinn feels like pushing it tonight: he's already lost the free beer, Bert hasn't noticed he's gone, and there's a surprisingly cold wind off the sea getting under his promo t-shirt.
The security guard catches his eye, makes a decision, and sighs, thumbing his earpiece.
Oops.
Later, in the back of the police car, Quinn considers the possibility that he may need to drink slightly less.
"Stop scratching it and it'll be fine in a week" is all very well to say, but Dan's got all the self-control of Clementine and, unlike the wheezy little pug princess, he can't wear one of those weird lampshade collars to stop himself having a go at the road rash on his forearm.
Okay, he probably shouldn't have been trying to race hospital gurneys down one of the steepest hills in San Francisco but no one had specifically told them not to* and Jepha lost the bet and ended up dressing as a sexy nurse so technically it was worth the grazes and the bruised ribs.
The part Dan's not enjoying is the itching, and the black eyes (he looks like a purple panda, for fuck's sake), and Jepha's continual sniggering.
*This is, btw, my reason for doing a lot of very stupid shit
Lewis was asleep on the sofa when the smoke alarm did what the TV had failed to, and woke him from formless but frustrating dreams. Being an obstinate sleeper, he at first felt around for the alarm clock and tried to work out through a glassy, shut-eyed fog of bargain whiskey why he was blanketless; the fact that he was clothed was, alas, not uncommon enough to merit mention but usually Dick dumped a blanket on him when he passed out on the living room furniture, and took his shoes off.
Eventually Lewis turned over too hard and flopped onto the floor, just missing his head on his empty glass, and groaned. There was a weird, burning sort of smell that was too aggressive to be hangover sweat, and after blinking once or twice into the carpet his brain advanced a cautious explanation and flung him upright without warning.
"Fuck fuck fuck," Lewis told the empty apartment. There wasn't much smoke - enough to set the shitty detector off, enough to make the room look slightly soft-focus, like there was Vaseline on the camera lens of his ... of his corneas - and he had a good idea where it was coming from.
Lewis stumbled into the kitchen and turned off the oven. Even through the glass panel in the door he could see the smoke swirling in the enclosed space like dry ice in a shitty nightclub; might as well leave it for a minute or his home - only slightly bigger than the oven itself anyway (thought Lewis, who'd grown up in a sprawling ancestral home of the kind the Kennedys would have admired) - would just fill up with smoke too.
Opening a window - the extractor fan had fucked up again and from the look of the feathers blowing in between the propeller blades the cause was another suicidal pigeon - Lewis snatched up the wine bottle from beside the oven and examined the label critically. The drink was coy about its origins, obfuscating the type of grape, and only marginally helpful in distinguishing it from window cleaner; necessary distinction as Lewis knew from the last two times he'd drunk it that a taste test wouldn't have established much difference. Still, it was cheap, it was red wine, and he was only a month late remembering Dick's birthday this year.
Which was DeEtta's fault. She was meant to remind him about things like when is ... when the person he lived with was having a birthday ... or for that matter when he was, but then she went off and got a new job in an actual real college instead of Access Learning for Adults and suddenly she was too busy. Even more too busy.
He realised he was unscrewing the lid and put the bottle down hastily. Another peek at the oven revealed that it was a little less like the boiler room of a malfunctioning Hades, and Lewis grabbed the handle - jumped back, swore, shook his hand, and stuck it under the cold tap for a minute before trying again with his t-shirt wrapped around his fist.
Charred and flaking in its Pyrex dish, his second attempt at a soufflé was, once again, more of a sou-flat. Lewis dumped the bowl in the sink. Dick was probably going to make that stupid fucking pun again, too.
In other news, what I *should* be doing this evening is finishing and recording my comedy set, and writing up the tiny headway I've made on my usedfic. What I will probably be doing is reading Berlin: City of Smoke, squeezing my spots, trying to draw Quinn with chicken nubbin wings, and shouting at the computer as I fail to make sense of making the beat I want to lay down so I can rap over it.
... you heard me. Rap*.
* In a weird confluence of events, "rap" was the word kids in my school would use in order to talismanically avoid using the hugely taboo word "rape" to describe the experience, and oh, yeah, the ever-changing sea of emotional blackmail, manipulation, and use of rape flashbacks as a moral weapon in the psychological warfare that was my secondary education, may have some bearing on why people talking about triggering makes me into the most vicious, unsympathetic cunt imaginable. Any attempt at manipulation or anything that smells like one tends to bring that out in me. (NB: I have only just worked this out myself. Huh. How tiresomely predictable my brain is)
AAHAHAHAAH UGH. Just literally threw up in my mouth. Mmm, delicious. Chunky burp.
(I've been birdwatching with my boyfriend. Never let it be said that I fit easily into a stereotype)
ALSO, YOU SHOULD BUY THIS SHIT:
.
FOR ME. PLEASE.
Shut the fuck up now.
Seriously, the universe has decided to simultaneously kick one of my friends in the crotch and take away one of my favourite toys who also happens to be said friend, and you're getting on my nerves. If I see one more post waving around the rape statistics which everyone in fandom who has eyes has now read more than a million times every time we have this fucking "debate", I will make the single most offensive post imaginable just to get you the fuck out of my face. Either say something new or eat a bag of dicks.
No fucking love,
Derek "hateful misogynist bitchwhore" Des Anges.
(see, this is why I should keep my internal monologues internal. They do mostly amount to "fucking die, all of you")
Less irritably:
Received an email with [The Used] found you in the subject line and nearly had a goddamn heartattack until I read it and realised it was just phelixstar saying hi. NGRGH BLOOD PRESSURE.
In an attempt to get writing moving again, I did a few snapshots:
It's not the first industry party Quinn's been thrown out of and it probably won't be the last. People are touchy whores who put too much value on having their carpets unsoaked by urine and un ... covered in broken glass. He sits down on the wall as soon as the security guy stops shoving him, and lights up. There's a "NO SMOKING" sign six feet to his left but Quinn feels like pushing it tonight: he's already lost the free beer, Bert hasn't noticed he's gone, and there's a surprisingly cold wind off the sea getting under his promo t-shirt.
The security guard catches his eye, makes a decision, and sighs, thumbing his earpiece.
Oops.
Later, in the back of the police car, Quinn considers the possibility that he may need to drink slightly less.
"Stop scratching it and it'll be fine in a week" is all very well to say, but Dan's got all the self-control of Clementine and, unlike the wheezy little pug princess, he can't wear one of those weird lampshade collars to stop himself having a go at the road rash on his forearm.
Okay, he probably shouldn't have been trying to race hospital gurneys down one of the steepest hills in San Francisco but no one had specifically told them not to* and Jepha lost the bet and ended up dressing as a sexy nurse so technically it was worth the grazes and the bruised ribs.
The part Dan's not enjoying is the itching, and the black eyes (he looks like a purple panda, for fuck's sake), and Jepha's continual sniggering.
*This is, btw, my reason for doing a lot of very stupid shit
Lewis was asleep on the sofa when the smoke alarm did what the TV had failed to, and woke him from formless but frustrating dreams. Being an obstinate sleeper, he at first felt around for the alarm clock and tried to work out through a glassy, shut-eyed fog of bargain whiskey why he was blanketless; the fact that he was clothed was, alas, not uncommon enough to merit mention but usually Dick dumped a blanket on him when he passed out on the living room furniture, and took his shoes off.
Eventually Lewis turned over too hard and flopped onto the floor, just missing his head on his empty glass, and groaned. There was a weird, burning sort of smell that was too aggressive to be hangover sweat, and after blinking once or twice into the carpet his brain advanced a cautious explanation and flung him upright without warning.
"Fuck fuck fuck," Lewis told the empty apartment. There wasn't much smoke - enough to set the shitty detector off, enough to make the room look slightly soft-focus, like there was Vaseline on the camera lens of his ... of his corneas - and he had a good idea where it was coming from.
Lewis stumbled into the kitchen and turned off the oven. Even through the glass panel in the door he could see the smoke swirling in the enclosed space like dry ice in a shitty nightclub; might as well leave it for a minute or his home - only slightly bigger than the oven itself anyway (thought Lewis, who'd grown up in a sprawling ancestral home of the kind the Kennedys would have admired) - would just fill up with smoke too.
Opening a window - the extractor fan had fucked up again and from the look of the feathers blowing in between the propeller blades the cause was another suicidal pigeon - Lewis snatched up the wine bottle from beside the oven and examined the label critically. The drink was coy about its origins, obfuscating the type of grape, and only marginally helpful in distinguishing it from window cleaner; necessary distinction as Lewis knew from the last two times he'd drunk it that a taste test wouldn't have established much difference. Still, it was cheap, it was red wine, and he was only a month late remembering Dick's birthday this year.
Which was DeEtta's fault. She was meant to remind him about things like when is ... when the person he lived with was having a birthday ... or for that matter when he was, but then she went off and got a new job in an actual real college instead of Access Learning for Adults and suddenly she was too busy. Even more too busy.
He realised he was unscrewing the lid and put the bottle down hastily. Another peek at the oven revealed that it was a little less like the boiler room of a malfunctioning Hades, and Lewis grabbed the handle - jumped back, swore, shook his hand, and stuck it under the cold tap for a minute before trying again with his t-shirt wrapped around his fist.
Charred and flaking in its Pyrex dish, his second attempt at a soufflé was, once again, more of a sou-flat. Lewis dumped the bowl in the sink. Dick was probably going to make that stupid fucking pun again, too.
In other news, what I *should* be doing this evening is finishing and recording my comedy set, and writing up the tiny headway I've made on my usedfic. What I will probably be doing is reading Berlin: City of Smoke, squeezing my spots, trying to draw Quinn with chicken nubbin wings, and shouting at the computer as I fail to make sense of making the beat I want to lay down so I can rap over it.
... you heard me. Rap*.
* In a weird confluence of events, "rap" was the word kids in my school would use in order to talismanically avoid using the hugely taboo word "rape" to describe the experience, and oh, yeah, the ever-changing sea of emotional blackmail, manipulation, and use of rape flashbacks as a moral weapon in the psychological warfare that was my secondary education, may have some bearing on why people talking about triggering makes me into the most vicious, unsympathetic cunt imaginable. Any attempt at manipulation or anything that smells like one tends to bring that out in me. (NB: I have only just worked this out myself. Huh. How tiresomely predictable my brain is)
AAHAHAHAAH UGH. Just literally threw up in my mouth. Mmm, delicious. Chunky burp.
(I've been birdwatching with my boyfriend. Never let it be said that I fit easily into a stereotype)
ALSO, YOU SHOULD BUY THIS SHIT:
.
FOR ME. PLEASE.