mass for the undead
I think I know why it is I don't quite like debating. (Or at least, Canadian University style.) I couldn't put my finger on it before, although I knew it was something like this. Aha.
There's too much waving and bashing about of morals and ideals, all too-in-your-face like. (It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye from 'it will hurt the healthcare system!') An-nd the importance of the arguments are lost. Which may seem like an odd thing to say, but yeah. You're taking sometimes sensitive topics and beating them about to death, but it doesn't actually do anything. Which I know, the point of (University) debating is not to actually do something. But still. And as fun as it is saying 'I'm right because my morals are, well, moral and yours kind of suck for these blatantly obvious reasons...' it's all B.S. in the end. Ah the art of having a heated argument while never saying anything at all - it's all smoke and mirrors. Politics, I salute you.
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In other news, procrastination knows no bounds. Have some Henry fic. (Imo, Sally).
One of Seven:
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Raw
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Henry likes steak.
Tony likes steak too, but not as much as Henry does - not even close.
Tony wonders if it’s physically possible to like steak as much as Henry does, or if it’s even healthy.
Actually, ‘liking’ hardly seems to cover Henry’s obsession, and Henry himself barely seems to cover his obsessions. Tony could spend his life’s work cataloguing from ‘Abstract’ to ‘Zebra Stripes’, but fortunately he’s found something better to do with his time.
Something that’s even better than writing Romance novels.
Speaking of which, fiercely passionate about and desperately enthralled with, to quote Henry’s latest work in progress (at which Tony most certainly has not been sneaking peaks) are closer to describing Henry’s steak habit. It’s vaguely stalkerish when Tony stops to think about it - the steak thing, not his digging through Henry’s desk drawers - and if steaks had fingers and weren’t dead, they’d probably be calling the stalker help-line.
Yeah.
Or not, because you know, Henry’s got his Nightwalker act and all that.
Which brings Tony back to the beginning again, point in case: Henry doesn’t need steak. Henry can feed of someone’s (and an alive someone’s) blood, and even convince them to let him, in less time than it takes to pick up a steak at the grocery store. But this is practically irrelevant: Henry doesn’t need to eat at all.
Not that Henry gets his steaks at the grocery store anyways, the uncultured son of Henry the eighth that he isn’t.
Or that Tony is in any way jealous of a slab of meat.
Tony feels vaguely uncomfortable about his not-jealousy in a romance-novel sort of way. He really doesn’t fancy the part of the nagging wife, while Henry runs off with his new juicy, tender Esmeralda.
It’s a good thing that they don’t actually know anyone named Esmeralda, and Tony takes uncharacteristic, vicious pleasure from the fact that Henry would have to go to great lengths to find one.
Then again, if there was ever someone good at finding things that want to stay hidden, it’s Henry. Which is a pity, because Tony doesn’t think that he’d every actually get away with homicide - not given his past relations with the police - even if this is Vancouver and not Toronto.
And were Henry to find a suitably named Esmeralda, Tony (in accordance with page two forty-three of Bedroom Passions) would be obligated to attack Esmeralda wildly, arms flailing in distress - dagger tearing skin and silk in unfocused yet searing blows.
Oh no, Tony’s not obsessed. It’s worse than that: he's addicted.
(Exhibit A, taking extended metaphors literally.)
Tony’s been there before, been up and down the streets and back-alleys. He’s seen what addictions do to people. All kinds of people of all shapes and sizes, doing all kinds of things that they’d tell their kids not to do.
It doesn’t matter what kind of person you are once you’re addicted, Tony knows. Once you’ve given up control, it always plays the same.
Addiction smiles down at him, all strawberry-blonde and pretty. Although in his mind, Tony can see the leer that must be hiding behind the curtain. ‘Come to me,’ says said addiction, and Tony says yes. How very cliché and omnious, but yes. He knows that he’s in over his head, and there’s that corner in his head that’s screaming ‘Run!’ But it’s not like Tony’s in a good spot to be negotiating anyways.
From the streets to a real home, or an apartment that’s not actually his, it seems like a good deal. A step in the right direction is what it is.
But Tony feels like he’s sliding back under. At least on the street, he knew where he stood - could call himself his own. Now he’s in a new city, with an addiction just as bad as the others.
Addiction says “Mine.”
Tony says, “Yes Henry.”
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I am a vegetarian, I swear. And no I don't sneak steaks on the sly.
There's too much waving and bashing about of morals and ideals, all too-in-your-face like. (It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye from 'it will hurt the healthcare system!') An-nd the importance of the arguments are lost. Which may seem like an odd thing to say, but yeah. You're taking sometimes sensitive topics and beating them about to death, but it doesn't actually do anything. Which I know, the point of (University) debating is not to actually do something. But still. And as fun as it is saying 'I'm right because my morals are, well, moral and yours kind of suck for these blatantly obvious reasons...' it's all B.S. in the end. Ah the art of having a heated argument while never saying anything at all - it's all smoke and mirrors. Politics, I salute you.
<>
In other news, procrastination knows no bounds. Have some Henry fic. (Imo, Sally).
One of Seven:
<><><><>
Raw
<><><><>
Henry likes steak.
Tony likes steak too, but not as much as Henry does - not even close.
Tony wonders if it’s physically possible to like steak as much as Henry does, or if it’s even healthy.
Actually, ‘liking’ hardly seems to cover Henry’s obsession, and Henry himself barely seems to cover his obsessions. Tony could spend his life’s work cataloguing from ‘Abstract’ to ‘Zebra Stripes’, but fortunately he’s found something better to do with his time.
Something that’s even better than writing Romance novels.
Speaking of which, fiercely passionate about and desperately enthralled with, to quote Henry’s latest work in progress (at which Tony most certainly has not been sneaking peaks) are closer to describing Henry’s steak habit. It’s vaguely stalkerish when Tony stops to think about it - the steak thing, not his digging through Henry’s desk drawers - and if steaks had fingers and weren’t dead, they’d probably be calling the stalker help-line.
Yeah.
Or not, because you know, Henry’s got his Nightwalker act and all that.
Which brings Tony back to the beginning again, point in case: Henry doesn’t need steak. Henry can feed of someone’s (and an alive someone’s) blood, and even convince them to let him, in less time than it takes to pick up a steak at the grocery store. But this is practically irrelevant: Henry doesn’t need to eat at all.
Not that Henry gets his steaks at the grocery store anyways, the uncultured son of Henry the eighth that he isn’t.
Or that Tony is in any way jealous of a slab of meat.
Tony feels vaguely uncomfortable about his not-jealousy in a romance-novel sort of way. He really doesn’t fancy the part of the nagging wife, while Henry runs off with his new juicy, tender Esmeralda.
It’s a good thing that they don’t actually know anyone named Esmeralda, and Tony takes uncharacteristic, vicious pleasure from the fact that Henry would have to go to great lengths to find one.
Then again, if there was ever someone good at finding things that want to stay hidden, it’s Henry. Which is a pity, because Tony doesn’t think that he’d every actually get away with homicide - not given his past relations with the police - even if this is Vancouver and not Toronto.
And were Henry to find a suitably named Esmeralda, Tony (in accordance with page two forty-three of Bedroom Passions) would be obligated to attack Esmeralda wildly, arms flailing in distress - dagger tearing skin and silk in unfocused yet searing blows.
Oh no, Tony’s not obsessed. It’s worse than that: he's addicted.
(Exhibit A, taking extended metaphors literally.)
Tony’s been there before, been up and down the streets and back-alleys. He’s seen what addictions do to people. All kinds of people of all shapes and sizes, doing all kinds of things that they’d tell their kids not to do.
It doesn’t matter what kind of person you are once you’re addicted, Tony knows. Once you’ve given up control, it always plays the same.
Addiction smiles down at him, all strawberry-blonde and pretty. Although in his mind, Tony can see the leer that must be hiding behind the curtain. ‘Come to me,’ says said addiction, and Tony says yes. How very cliché and omnious, but yes. He knows that he’s in over his head, and there’s that corner in his head that’s screaming ‘Run!’ But it’s not like Tony’s in a good spot to be negotiating anyways.
From the streets to a real home, or an apartment that’s not actually his, it seems like a good deal. A step in the right direction is what it is.
But Tony feels like he’s sliding back under. At least on the street, he knew where he stood - could call himself his own. Now he’s in a new city, with an addiction just as bad as the others.
Addiction says “Mine.”
Tony says, “Yes Henry.”
<><><><>
I am a vegetarian, I swear. And no I don't sneak steaks on the sly.