Clear a space for the one inside.
It's friggin' sweltering out in my corner of the woods. It also does not help that I'm at the theatre and the machinery up here in the projection booth adds a good five, six degrees to the temperature.
What kind of heat are we talking about here, dear flist? Allow me to explain.
My glass of water was a glass of ice five minutes ago, and my shirt is all but soaked through with sweat. Lovely image, I know.
The only thing at this point keeping my brain unfried -- I'm honestly imagining my brain cracked like an egg and my brain coming out a puddle of liquid to be cooked on the pavement; another lovely image for you all -- is the steady intake of lots of water. There's some sort of street party or something going on outside, and I am barely preventing myself from throttling the band playing.
(They absolutely butchered Pink Floyd. I nearly cried.)
Therefore, dear flist, I turn to you. DISTRACT THE HELL OUT OF ME BEFORE SOMEONE ENDS UP HURT. Most likely me, from banging my head against one of the projectors over and over again. It's your moral imperative now. MINE IS AN EVIL PLOT. Pick a fandom (if you don't know if I'm familiar with it, just ask), choose a character/ship/whatever, gimmie a prompt, and I will write you a quick 100-300 word ficlet. TAH-DAH.
...no, honestly. Please. Request shit. Brains on pavement is actually starting to sound vaguely appetizing, and I fear what that means.
What kind of heat are we talking about here, dear flist? Allow me to explain.
My glass of water was a glass of ice five minutes ago, and my shirt is all but soaked through with sweat. Lovely image, I know.
The only thing at this point keeping my brain unfried -- I'm honestly imagining my brain cracked like an egg and my brain coming out a puddle of liquid to be cooked on the pavement; another lovely image for you all -- is the steady intake of lots of water. There's some sort of street party or something going on outside, and I am barely preventing myself from throttling the band playing.
(They absolutely butchered Pink Floyd. I nearly cried.)
Therefore, dear flist, I turn to you. DISTRACT THE HELL OUT OF ME BEFORE SOMEONE ENDS UP HURT. Most likely me, from banging my head against one of the projectors over and over again. It's your moral imperative now. MINE IS AN EVIL PLOT. Pick a fandom (if you don't know if I'm familiar with it, just ask), choose a character/ship/whatever, gimmie a prompt, and I will write you a quick 100-300 word ficlet. TAH-DAH.
...no, honestly. Please. Request shit. Brains on pavement is actually starting to sound vaguely appetizing, and I fear what that means.