[i make toys but i've got aspirations]
This week, people. For serious.
- I am vacillating between Arabic and Spanish (and Community College and the Cambridge Center for Adult Ed), but I am totally taking a language course of some nature next semester. I just. Yes. In fact, let's go to the polls, shall we?
Poll "J'accuse, mon petite fromage!"
- I am working on getting used to the fact that John Lackey is OUR (for definitions of "our" that include me and a whole bunch of those other people who were wandering around Fenway last weekend) creepy uncle no one wants to sit next to during the holidays with perpetual Manning face now. It is--look, I've just spent a big chunk of my life mocking him for his whole glaring at his teammates and throwing them under the bus schtick, so it's an adjustment. I'll be focusing extra hard on the laundry for a while.
- tangleofthorns is making rugelach. I have decided that this means we need to bake all Brooklyn bakery style holiday cookies: I've done black and whites in the past, but the pignolis and rainbow cookies will be an all new experience. (Note: man, we are going to have way too many cookies for two people.) (Note the second: man, we are totally procrastinating on this whole Yuletide gig.)
- Speaking of which: I have written a couple thousand words in the past couple of days, only. Yeah. You know it. They are either not for my Yuletide fic at all
The Tim Lincecum/Barry Zito one where everybody must get stoned."No," Lincecum says. Now he just looks confused, little wrinkle in the middle of the forehead, and Zito reaches out to flatten it down. Lincecum slaps his hand away. "Stop it," he says, "Fucking freak."
"No, you're the Freak. I'm, fuck, I'm Captain Quirk." Zito holds his hand up Spock-style, all live long and prosper and shit. "Hey, did you see that movie? Man, Spock kicks so much ass."
The Josh Beckett & Jason Varitek are friends one.
Varitek's fingers are all kinds of fucked up. Bent and bruised and missing half a nail on the ring finger, naked without stripes of white tape. He's popping open another beer and dropping the cap onto the bar. Beckett half-expects him to signal for a fastball, inside. Curve in the dirt. Instead he just lifts the bottle and takes a nice swallow.
Beckett signals to the bartender. Orders a water and a beer, in that order.
The Bob Bryar is not Adam Lambert's type, but that isn't stopping Gerard one.
"I'm not your type," Bob says. He doesn't even wait for Adam to sit down. Rip the band-aid off, no use fucking around. No misunderstandings, no bullshit. They can have their dinner, tell Gee it just didn't work out, thanks for trying.
Adam pulls out his chair. Sits. "No," he says, "Not particularly."
The JD McCoy wins the Heisman one.
JD McCoy thanks God first, his daddy second, and Jesus third. He thanks his momma after he thanks his wide receivers, but he thanks her three more times before he holds up his hand and says, "Hook 'em."
(Back in Texas, thousands in unison--automatic reflex--: "Hook 'em.")
or, um, the scene I totally cut from my Yuletide because it actually doesn't belong in the story. Go me? (omgmustwritesomethingshitBEARS)
- In lieu of getting work done on my Yuletide fic, I've been catching up on Friday Night Lights (&COACH&MRSCOACH;), watching random episodes of Farscape (&AERYN&JOHN;), quoting The West Wing ("I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my skirt, too sexy for the other things"), listening to holiday music, figuring out what to do with in re: the LJ/DW issue (short answer: deal with it after the holidays), stressing out about buying holiday presents, daydreaming about pitchers and catchers, wondering just how cursed the Bruins really are this year, and not giving a fuck about the NBA. This is just the way I roll, y'all.