The Paper of Doom is Done!
So, finished the boring paper of psych-ness. It is not the _most_ half assed paper I've ever written (that honor goes to the paper I wrote for my second semester of Sociolinguistics at Kanda. But hey, they encouraged half-assed-ness. "Is four pages double spaced too much? We can make it shorter..." Yeah. e_e) but it is close. Never the less it is DONE and that's the important part. At this point I just really really want to be finished. I miss being able to, you know, DO things. I haven't managed to see Melissa since I got back from Japan last August--except when I was off buying books, and I don't think that really counts. Yeah. But whatever. Life behind the cuts.
So, I joined Matt. H's D&D group. It's me, Jermey, Tony, and Matt B. ^___^ It was lot's of fun. I look forward to many Sundays of screwy religious highjinks. ^_^ It seems we are living in a country which has spent the last dedade in a territory war with our neighboring country. As a result, most of the guard, military, etc, are fighting. Leaving the farm-folk who haven't enlisted with no one to turn to when trouble hits but the Church. Or rather churches. Between that and religion being the opiate of the massess--religion seems the way to go. So our group consists of Kyrie, my monk, Xyla, Matt B's cleric, Jam (for short), the (very young and schmooy) paladin, and Tony's mysterious character-who-is-obviously-a-rogue-of-some-kind. ^_^ So yeah, we went forth to smite evil and ended up killing some oversized beetles that were eating a farmer's crops, and left off consulting the local Druids to find out what drove them out of their underground homes. After that we will likely be investigating mysterious disappearances at a near-by temple. Fun times all around.
Stargate:Atlantis. I. Love. This. Show. It isn't so much that the plots are so great--they're good enough, your basic sci-fi show plots, but the characters are great. Wier is nifty, Sheppard is the worlds most passive-aggressive rebel ever to imitate Kirk, and McKay? I just love him. He's a rude, egotistical, snarky ass--which is of course why I adore him. *G* Not surprisingly the ratio of favorite episodes to ones that feature McKay? Pretty damn high. Though absolute faves thus far would be Hide and Seek ("In-vul-nerable!) and Duet (wacky brain-sharing highjinks. ^_^) so yeah. Loving this show muchly.
Random Crazy Story!
There were times when she could almost remember. When the buzzing in her head was quiet for once, when Ship finally shut the hell up for five fucking seconds, when the Dexters were all tucked into their chargers for the night and it was just her and the crazies in their glass coffins-Sleeping Beauty waiting for sanity's first kiss-then she sometimes caught glimpses. Crazy kaleidoscope colors and fractional images like the reflection of a mirror in a mirror bounced back and forth into tiny complex infinity dancing waltzes in the back of her head. Smell all warm and soft and tasty-peaches and cinnamon-fragments of things that should be familiar and aren't-hands, soft and worn rolling the dough, pies sitting on the window-soft tinkling sounds that reminded her of the sounds her nails make when she taps them on the walls-sparkling and silver, bells twist in the breeze-they flit through her head like familiar strangers.Things she used to know, accept, take for granted; memories that used to be just a fired neuron away and now are as unreachable as the moon. Less so. Moons are a dime a dozen, but memories of Before are few and precious. Ship doesn't like it when she remembers-she stopped mentioning it after the first few times-didn't like the zapping, sharp ozone and lightning if she was quiet too long. She picked up the habit of talking to herself about then. Kept her voice going-no one to talk to but Ship and the crazies, and only Ship could hear her-refused to answer out loud, steel-plated bitch. The only sounds she heard were the hum of Ship existing and the ones she made herself. She made up songs to sing in the beginning, but she had nothing to remember them by and she was sick of forgetting things. So now she made up stories for the crazies. Not for them to listen to-they couldn't hear anything all stuck inside their heads and screaming-but about them. She'd make up their lives; family and work and home and play, make up what they had been before. Imagine what worlds they created for themselves all curled up in their pods like seeds waiting for spring. Occasionally Ship would make comments from the peanut gallery, but mostly left her to her own devices unless there were tasks-kill them, kill all of them, or they'll kill you-to do or buttons to press.
Sometimes she got to leave Ship's halls and then it was all dark and pressing in like womb, cave, tomb, grave and the Others would press around her greedy and hungry and sharp and pain like a kick in the chest and can't breathe can't scream can't run but it doesn't matter. Because then they all fall down-ring around the rosy, pockets full of posies/London bridge is falling down-and no amount of stone could rebuild them. Then its all cutting open the cocoons to let out the crazies-sane little caterpillars become mad, mad butterflies. Sometimes they come out all right and then she and Ship send them off with a wave and a smile but mostly they're crazy and into the coffins they go: all their little vines are broken, dendrites can't quite bridge the distance between now and then-mind the gap-so into the pods so Ship can build them trellises. Maybe someday their vines will make elephants and unicorns and green leaf kitty-cats. Mental topiaries. But no mazes. She doesn't like those. All you have to do is put your hand on the wall and always turn left to get to the center. It even works on Ship. Watch the engines go whir, flash, spin until Ship sends a Dexter to drag her off to eat or sleep or some other boring necessity of organic existence. Existing is boring, but all evidence supports death not being much better for all the interesting stories people tell themselves to keep from trembling inside their decaying skins.
So time passed and passed and passed unnoticed-little beads strung on cold metallic silent thread each one as like the last as to make no real difference-a difference that makes no difference is no difference-and Ship continued to drift through the dark, dark, Dark and never once lit a candle.
And then one day the darkness cursed.
The Others fell and fell and fell as her stomach twisted in knots, not, never, neigh-no-never, quoth the raven nevermore, and she heaved and heaved even though her stomach was empty-she'd learned that lesson early on-and lay there curled up as the spiders fell down and lay with their legs all curled up on the window-sill.
=Are you going to just lay there like a lump or do something useful? You're the one who insists on emptying the larder before I blow their ship to very tiny pieces.=
Save the butterflies from the spider's larder, poor mother Hubbard went to the cupboard… "Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly."
=You know, if I'd known when I'd started that the retro-treatment was going to drive you bug-fuck crazy? I might have re-thought my brilliant plan, infallible though I am.=
She pulled the sharp sliver of ice, cold, steel, death, blade from the sheath in her boot and wandered towards the parlor full of lost sad souls-trapped in the Others' webs and no escape for them. "Didn't fail this time either. You didn't start out specifically desiring me sane."
=Besides the point. I wonder, was it the gene modification, the virus, or all that hardware I stuck in your head that did it?=
Find the cocoons and cut them open, set them free, see if they remember how to fly. Tap the cold pale face "Wakey wakey pretty bug. And the Butler did it. They always do you know."
=Crazy. Nuts. Bats in the belfry.=
This one is a screamer. Put on a tag and wait for Ship to blink him home. "Bats eat their weight in bugs every night."
The next one refuses to even open their eyes. And the three after that are just dead, dead, gone to dust. If the cocoons get damaged, the butterflies die. Cut after cut, cold pale faces, some scream, some try to run, but many just lay silent, still, and lost. "Poor things. Can't move, can't scream, can't run. Know they're going to come and eat you and just have to wait and wait… No wonder they all go mad, mad, mad."
=Takes to know. I don't know why you even bother. Most of the one's that aren't dead or eaten already never buck the catatonia.=
I like cats. Besides, I'll make them a better life if they don't like the one they have."
Last one, last one, then the larder is bare and it's back to cold maze steel halls and no one but Ship and the Dexters. Tap gently, touch helps sometimes, knock-knock, who's there… "Early birds sing prettier songs little bug, wake up and listen ."
Eyes open and mouth opens and this one will be a screamer it seems.
"Fucking over-grown leeches. And who're you calling 'bug' creepy kid?"
But not so loud and not so strange and there are words, real words, not no-please-no words and it's been so long! "You talked!"
"Creepy and astute. You're just full of talents. Help me the fuck out of this god-damned thing."
Grab the hand and gently pull, have to support most of the weight, "Your wings need time to dry. It's okay. We have time, time, time waits for no man, but then, I'm a girl. No man born am I" That had spiders too, didn't it?
Head turns and eyes dance and skitter wall to wall and "The Others are all dead, dead, dead. They ate something that didn't agree with them, don't you know."
Eyes settle on her and for the first time in a long time she is _seen_ and she can't help but wonder what she looks like. It's never been something she'd thought about before, after all, Ship and the Dexters didn't look with eyes that reflected light in little glitters as pupils expanded and contracted and the Crazies never saw her even if they looked-saw the monsters and the angels that danced inside their heads, so now she wasn't even sure what the mind behind the eyes was seeing.
=Are you done yet? Cause the Dexters have moved all your 'little bugs' to med bay, and I'd like to get to the good part, if it's all the same to you.=
"Boom, boom, it's all about the spark and flash with you. And you say I'm crazy. Playing with fire is a sign of psychosis, you know."
Head tilt. "What? Why are you talking to the ceiling?"
Silly woke up… Hmm. Not a butterfly, because they're always broken and this one is not. Cracked maybe, but leaks don't make no never mind, never mind, and not a caterpillar that's before not after. "So what are you then?"
Dig into the bag and press a tag against his chest, prop his arm over her shoulders and help him stand up, shaky, quaky, noodle legs don't wanna stand but she makes them, because she may feel sick, but they're all dead so she has the better end of that very short stick.
"I'm a person. How about you?"
People are something she doesn't see often. Just broken butterfly crazies and Ship, Ship, "Ship take us home again home again jiggity jig, kay? You should never throw away a weapon."
Blinks twice thrice and glimmer, glowy, gone, gone, gone and Ship's walls all cold and hard and smooth around them, Dexter hovering anxious little ball with blue glowing lens for an eye, scans the person who jerks back and hits the wall bang. "Don't scare him! He's had a awful, bad, horrible, no good, terrible day."
Dexter pings, pings, =Sorry Captain, didn't mean to, Ship says med bay for him.=
Jerk him back behind and safe, "No! He's not broken, no pods for him. He doesn't have to wait for spring to come because its always summer in his head and no! Bad, bad Ship! Blow up the Other-Place and leave my Person alone!"
How Ship can make the inside of her head feel eye-rolly is quite a trick. If she could learn it there would be whole new ways to make Ship angry and glary and sarcastic-always great fun. =So that he can be checked out for injuries, Captain-my-Captain, not popped into the nano-pods. Far be it from me to deny you the joys of having a pet.=
"Oh. Okay. That's alright then." Glance at my person, "but he's a person he says. Not a cat, cat, catatonic, so no pods, and no petting, and can you teach him to purr?"
Refuses to follow the tug on his arm, cling to the wall and glare, glare, glare, eyes all glowery brows and bright angry sparks. And seeing her, will never get used to that.... "Where the fuck am I, what the hell is that, and who the _hell_ are you talking to you?"
So yeah. Great good fun while attempthing to not write paper. But only a few more weeks of school and then all I have to worry about is the fact that I work at a Departo and it's December. yeah...
Tai food with Callie today. Lookign forward to that. ^_^