i'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor
1. So it appears that 1. people think I should just do a recs update anyway, and 2. a majority of people prefer "Pepper" by the Butthole Surfers to the other songs listed. Or maybe they just mind the sun less than other things. (Poor Morrissey. Most people mind if you forget them.) I wish we had some sun here. It's been grey and rainy for days, and apparently will continue to be so. Sigh.
ii. I wrote last night! A totally new story that was not on any of my lists, but. uh, 285 words so far. Yay!
C. Friday Night Lights returns tonight. On DirecTV, so you know, YAY! Well, a small YAY! because I don't know when exactly I will get to see it. But after last season's awesome, I am hopeful.
d. ignited has a info on a casting side and episode title for SPN episode 12. SWAP MEAT. *dies* You know they're not going to give us the awesome of an actual Sam/Dean bodyswap (THOUGH THEY TOTALLY SHOULD! DO YOU HEAR ME, KRIPKE? *shakes fist*), but I imagine one or the other will get swapped with this loser dude. Or something. I am just speculating. Hopefully it will be hilarious and awesome, whatever they do.
You know, I am generally pretty laid back about spoilers - I don't mind episode titles and casting spoilers (sometimes I don't think they even ARE spoilers, but whatevs) and even TV-guide like blurbs, though I don't like to know plot twists ahead of time - but back in my BtVS days, I became anti-spoiler because I'd read them and speculate and get all bent out of shape and it was damaging my enjoyment of the show. Now, with SPN, I feel like I kind of need some small cushion of spoilers, in case there is something I'll find upsetting and need to brace for. It's kind of a weird change. I mean, I am really enjoying s5 so far (but then, I really liked s4 for the most part), but I don't really trust the PTB. I never do. (note: that is not an invitation to tell me I should trust them, and why you do.) I'm most wary of the shows I'm most invested in, and right now, that's SPN, which has certainly given me cause to be wary in the past. Sigh.
V. via various people on my flist and delicious network: Women in WWII is a series of fantastic photographs of women who fought (for various values of "fought") in WWII. That first image of women firefighters at Pearl Harbor is AMAZINGLY AWESOME.
f. I am still trying to figure out what to ask for and offer in yuletide. I have two requests figured out (Middleman! The Queen's Thief!), I think, but I am still torn on the others, especially as the other things I really want (Max/Alec, Booth/Brennan, Morgan/Garcia, Tony/Pepper) are all ineligible. And I am resolved this year to only offer a small handful of things I'm excited about writing, rather than anything I think I might be interested in writing. We'll see how that goes.
7. Here's another Richard Siken poem that is totally angsty Sam/Dean to me.
Wishbone
You saved my life he says I owe you everything.
You don't, I say, you don't owe me squat, let's just get going, let's just get gone, but he's
relentless,
keeps saying I owe you, says Your shoes are filling with your own damn blood,
you must want something, just tell me, and it's yours.
But I can't look at him, can hardly speak,
I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I'd just as soon kill you myself, I say.
You keep saying I owe you, I owe... but you say the same thing every time.
Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk.
Not because I don't believe it, not because I want it any different, but I'm always saving
and you're always owing and I'm tired of asking to settle the debt.
Don't bother.
You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.
There's only one thing I want, don't make me say it, just get me bandages, I'm bleeding,
I'm not just making conversation.
There's smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It's a Western, Henry,
it's a downright shoot-em-up. We've made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon.
It's another wrong-man-dies scenario
and we keep doing it, Henry, keep saying until we get it right...
but we always win and we never quit, see, we've won again, here we are at the place
where I get to beg for it
where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our
clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?
or will I say
Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me
this at least, can't you? but we both know how it goes. I say I want you inside me
and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me
and you split me open with a knife. I'm battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula,
I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say I'll give you anything.
But you never come through.
Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you're standing up
you look like you're lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby? Do I have to
tie your arms down?
Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary
like it's just another petty theft? It makes me tired, Henry. Do you see what I mean?
Do you see what I'm getting at?
You swallowing matches and suddenly I'm yelling Strike me. Strike anywhere.
I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me, and I have to search
my body for the scars, thinking
Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in? I know you want me to say it, Henry,
it's in the script, you want me to say Lie down on the bed, you're all I ever wanted
and worth dying for too
but I think I'd rather keep the bullet this time. It's mine, you can't have it, see,
I'm not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that's
as good as anything.
You can't get out of this one, Henry, you can't get it out of me, and with this bullet
lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because
it's all I have,
because I'm hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I'll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me
'cause I couldn't make you love me and I'm tired of pulling your teeth. Don't you see, it's like
I've swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,
like it's been waiting inside me the whole time.
Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground
like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?
If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand.
Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?
There's a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet
staring up at us like we're something interesting.
This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard,
and make a wish.
~Richard Siken
*
I totally want to name a story "my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief" and also "turn myself into a gun." So much inspiration there. Sigh.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/87077.html.
people have commented there.
ii. I wrote last night! A totally new story that was not on any of my lists, but. uh, 285 words so far. Yay!
C. Friday Night Lights returns tonight. On DirecTV, so you know, YAY! Well, a small YAY! because I don't know when exactly I will get to see it. But after last season's awesome, I am hopeful.
d. ignited has a info on a casting side and episode title for SPN episode 12. SWAP MEAT. *dies* You know they're not going to give us the awesome of an actual Sam/Dean bodyswap (THOUGH THEY TOTALLY SHOULD! DO YOU HEAR ME, KRIPKE? *shakes fist*), but I imagine one or the other will get swapped with this loser dude. Or something. I am just speculating. Hopefully it will be hilarious and awesome, whatever they do.
You know, I am generally pretty laid back about spoilers - I don't mind episode titles and casting spoilers (sometimes I don't think they even ARE spoilers, but whatevs) and even TV-guide like blurbs, though I don't like to know plot twists ahead of time - but back in my BtVS days, I became anti-spoiler because I'd read them and speculate and get all bent out of shape and it was damaging my enjoyment of the show. Now, with SPN, I feel like I kind of need some small cushion of spoilers, in case there is something I'll find upsetting and need to brace for. It's kind of a weird change. I mean, I am really enjoying s5 so far (but then, I really liked s4 for the most part), but I don't really trust the PTB. I never do. (note: that is not an invitation to tell me I should trust them, and why you do.) I'm most wary of the shows I'm most invested in, and right now, that's SPN, which has certainly given me cause to be wary in the past. Sigh.
V. via various people on my flist and delicious network: Women in WWII is a series of fantastic photographs of women who fought (for various values of "fought") in WWII. That first image of women firefighters at Pearl Harbor is AMAZINGLY AWESOME.
f. I am still trying to figure out what to ask for and offer in yuletide. I have two requests figured out (Middleman! The Queen's Thief!), I think, but I am still torn on the others, especially as the other things I really want (Max/Alec, Booth/Brennan, Morgan/Garcia, Tony/Pepper) are all ineligible. And I am resolved this year to only offer a small handful of things I'm excited about writing, rather than anything I think I might be interested in writing. We'll see how that goes.
7. Here's another Richard Siken poem that is totally angsty Sam/Dean to me.
Wishbone
You saved my life he says I owe you everything.
You don't, I say, you don't owe me squat, let's just get going, let's just get gone, but he's
relentless,
keeps saying I owe you, says Your shoes are filling with your own damn blood,
you must want something, just tell me, and it's yours.
But I can't look at him, can hardly speak,
I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I'd just as soon kill you myself, I say.
You keep saying I owe you, I owe... but you say the same thing every time.
Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk.
Not because I don't believe it, not because I want it any different, but I'm always saving
and you're always owing and I'm tired of asking to settle the debt.
Don't bother.
You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.
There's only one thing I want, don't make me say it, just get me bandages, I'm bleeding,
I'm not just making conversation.
There's smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It's a Western, Henry,
it's a downright shoot-em-up. We've made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon.
It's another wrong-man-dies scenario
and we keep doing it, Henry, keep saying until we get it right...
but we always win and we never quit, see, we've won again, here we are at the place
where I get to beg for it
where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our
clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?
or will I say
Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me
this at least, can't you? but we both know how it goes. I say I want you inside me
and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me
and you split me open with a knife. I'm battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula,
I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say I'll give you anything.
But you never come through.
Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you're standing up
you look like you're lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby? Do I have to
tie your arms down?
Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary
like it's just another petty theft? It makes me tired, Henry. Do you see what I mean?
Do you see what I'm getting at?
You swallowing matches and suddenly I'm yelling Strike me. Strike anywhere.
I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me, and I have to search
my body for the scars, thinking
Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in? I know you want me to say it, Henry,
it's in the script, you want me to say Lie down on the bed, you're all I ever wanted
and worth dying for too
but I think I'd rather keep the bullet this time. It's mine, you can't have it, see,
I'm not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that's
as good as anything.
You can't get out of this one, Henry, you can't get it out of me, and with this bullet
lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because
it's all I have,
because I'm hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I'll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me
'cause I couldn't make you love me and I'm tired of pulling your teeth. Don't you see, it's like
I've swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,
like it's been waiting inside me the whole time.
Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground
like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?
If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand.
Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?
There's a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet
staring up at us like we're something interesting.
This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard,
and make a wish.
~Richard Siken
*
I totally want to name a story "my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief" and also "turn myself into a gun." So much inspiration there. Sigh.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/87077.html.
people have commented there.