Breakfast of Champions.
Word count as of this morning: 31,018.
That's sixty percent done. I'll make you look at the word meter later. Because I'm a sadist like that.
Aaand in other news, Friday was the monthly convocation of geeks and gluttony. I was bitching about the cons of not being able to read aloud, but I feel obligated at this point to remind everyone that there are pros as well; the biggest one is that sometimes, just sometimes, you get to hear some really first-rate stories. And everything read on Friday was a heck of a lot of fun. The kind of night that makes me glad I didn't bring anything.
And on Friday, spacezombie contributed to the downfall of Western Civilization by providing me with a tool for evil: our Christmas present. A region-free DVD player that can also make sense out of video clips and mp3s. My gratitude will have a high body count, I guarantee it.
I can now play all my internet porn clips on my TV, AHAHAHAHA!!!, and FINALLY watch my prized pirate copies of that Tarzan show with Travis Fimmel that got canceled after only 8 episodes. I have yet to determine if it was a good show or a bad show. I couldn't tell you if he can act. I'm too busy looking at him and wondering how the fuck someone so seraphically gorgeous can possibly be a member of the same species as, say, Nicholas Cage, who looks like his DNA has been combined with that of a katydid.
Anyway, this is all to spacezombie's advantage, as the longer I spend in front of the TV the faster I will be done with his birthday present. Which I hope he likes, because I think it's pretty damn cool, myself.
So, yes, I spent this weekend in an orgy of Brisco County, Jr. and Justice League episodes, with a heaping topper of Ioan Gruffudd. Yeeeah. Guess what came in the mail last week, prompting gusty shrieks of delight? The Horatio Hornblower super-duper-extreme-ultra-special edition boxed set, complete with *dies* interview footage where he's making no effort to suppress his Welsh accent.
We watched the first movie last night. I had not known that Jamie Bamber (Apollo, Battlestar Galactica) was in it, looking cute and fuzzy and very, very young.
And Jesus, Ioan looks really young. So in addition to hitting the "devilishly gorgeous" and "please spank me" buttons, he's also mashing down hard on the "I will blow your rodent mind" button with his twerpy cluelessness. With all the button-pushing, it's like some kind of Mortal Kombat-style finishing combo has been unleashed in my pants. And then he gets a backbone and becomes all stern and honorable. It's enough to make a girl die of dehydration.
At one point even Sargon, who is so unnaturally straight you could calculate vectors through hyperspace with his sex drive, turned to me and said something like "Jesus Christ, he is really cute." I don't remember the exact wording. I was pretty much drooling into my lap like some sort of mental defective.
Best sixty bucks I ever spent.
Though watching the interview footage, where it's made apparent that he's a really nice guy only make it harder on me. They had to fly him out to the fucking Crimea to film the Hornblower stuff, and when he got to Yalta apparently he just started bawling because he didn't want to be so far away from his parents and his girlfriend.
That is so sweet it verges on unbearable.
People, I eat nice guys for breakfast. I mulch them under like grasshoppers caught in a push-mower. I crave them the way Oprah Winfrey craves her next meal of human face. It's not pretty, the depths of my depravity.
It happens a lot - I get to liking a guy who has that dangerous look, only to discover that he is actually just as sweet as apple butter. Jason Isaacs would be another example. He's all scary and dangerous-looking, but you watch interview footage, he's like . . . a dad. Just super-nice.
And don't get me started with the daddy-issues over-the-knee spanking thing. You know, it would probably require the both of them to take the edge off. I have a big ass. It's a two-man job.
I think I'm done fangirling now, though I could be wrong.
I keep promising BPAL reviews and I will put them up, I've just been re-testing a few scents to see what I think of them on a second run. It's amazing how complex perfumery is. Often I'll get a sniff of something and have no idea what it is I'm smelling, or how to describe it. I have to go rooting around, trying to ferret out individual notes. It's wild.
I will profess an undying (heh) love for Zombi, as well as major, major lust for Iago. I see big bottles of both of those in my future, unless I find another rose blend I like better, or something else leather-based that flips my skirt up. Morocco, Scherezade, and The Lion are also beautiful, in a spicy/amber sort of way.
Anyway, enough of my blather. I threatened you with it, so here it is. Behold my word meter.
31,018 / 50,000
(62.0%)
That's sixty percent done. I'll make you look at the word meter later. Because I'm a sadist like that.
Aaand in other news, Friday was the monthly convocation of geeks and gluttony. I was bitching about the cons of not being able to read aloud, but I feel obligated at this point to remind everyone that there are pros as well; the biggest one is that sometimes, just sometimes, you get to hear some really first-rate stories. And everything read on Friday was a heck of a lot of fun. The kind of night that makes me glad I didn't bring anything.
And on Friday, spacezombie contributed to the downfall of Western Civilization by providing me with a tool for evil: our Christmas present. A region-free DVD player that can also make sense out of video clips and mp3s. My gratitude will have a high body count, I guarantee it.
I can now play all my internet porn clips on my TV, AHAHAHAHA!!!, and FINALLY watch my prized pirate copies of that Tarzan show with Travis Fimmel that got canceled after only 8 episodes. I have yet to determine if it was a good show or a bad show. I couldn't tell you if he can act. I'm too busy looking at him and wondering how the fuck someone so seraphically gorgeous can possibly be a member of the same species as, say, Nicholas Cage, who looks like his DNA has been combined with that of a katydid.
Anyway, this is all to spacezombie's advantage, as the longer I spend in front of the TV the faster I will be done with his birthday present. Which I hope he likes, because I think it's pretty damn cool, myself.
So, yes, I spent this weekend in an orgy of Brisco County, Jr. and Justice League episodes, with a heaping topper of Ioan Gruffudd. Yeeeah. Guess what came in the mail last week, prompting gusty shrieks of delight? The Horatio Hornblower super-duper-extreme-ultra-special edition boxed set, complete with *dies* interview footage where he's making no effort to suppress his Welsh accent.
We watched the first movie last night. I had not known that Jamie Bamber (Apollo, Battlestar Galactica) was in it, looking cute and fuzzy and very, very young.
And Jesus, Ioan looks really young. So in addition to hitting the "devilishly gorgeous" and "please spank me" buttons, he's also mashing down hard on the "I will blow your rodent mind" button with his twerpy cluelessness. With all the button-pushing, it's like some kind of Mortal Kombat-style finishing combo has been unleashed in my pants. And then he gets a backbone and becomes all stern and honorable. It's enough to make a girl die of dehydration.
At one point even Sargon, who is so unnaturally straight you could calculate vectors through hyperspace with his sex drive, turned to me and said something like "Jesus Christ, he is really cute." I don't remember the exact wording. I was pretty much drooling into my lap like some sort of mental defective.
Best sixty bucks I ever spent.
Though watching the interview footage, where it's made apparent that he's a really nice guy only make it harder on me. They had to fly him out to the fucking Crimea to film the Hornblower stuff, and when he got to Yalta apparently he just started bawling because he didn't want to be so far away from his parents and his girlfriend.
That is so sweet it verges on unbearable.
People, I eat nice guys for breakfast. I mulch them under like grasshoppers caught in a push-mower. I crave them the way Oprah Winfrey craves her next meal of human face. It's not pretty, the depths of my depravity.
It happens a lot - I get to liking a guy who has that dangerous look, only to discover that he is actually just as sweet as apple butter. Jason Isaacs would be another example. He's all scary and dangerous-looking, but you watch interview footage, he's like . . . a dad. Just super-nice.
And don't get me started with the daddy-issues over-the-knee spanking thing. You know, it would probably require the both of them to take the edge off. I have a big ass. It's a two-man job.
I think I'm done fangirling now, though I could be wrong.
I keep promising BPAL reviews and I will put them up, I've just been re-testing a few scents to see what I think of them on a second run. It's amazing how complex perfumery is. Often I'll get a sniff of something and have no idea what it is I'm smelling, or how to describe it. I have to go rooting around, trying to ferret out individual notes. It's wild.
I will profess an undying (heh) love for Zombi, as well as major, major lust for Iago. I see big bottles of both of those in my future, unless I find another rose blend I like better, or something else leather-based that flips my skirt up. Morocco, Scherezade, and The Lion are also beautiful, in a spicy/amber sort of way.
Anyway, enough of my blather. I threatened you with it, so here it is. Behold my word meter.
31,018 / 50,000
(62.0%)