We need a sarcasm sign.
After seven, read my lips, seven aborted tries at writing Raleigh Becket, two tries at Herc Hanson and a minor nervous breakdown caused by not being able to write in the fandom I'm currently a bit nuts about, I switched to Chuck Hansen and, bam, off we go.
The nice guy didn't work out, the emotionally stunted guy didn't work out, so I went for the sarcastic asshat and, hello, there we go.
Why is it that I write best when I write assholes? Or rather, why is it that I can only seem to empathize with the assholes?
In other news, now that I've decided not to move out, I've pulled apart both my room and the guest room.
The guest room contained ten years of detritus that needed to be sorted out, the stuff from my flat that I won't be using that needed to be boxed up and cleared away and furniture that needed to be moved around. Did all that, moved my closet and old dresser over there, bought a new dresser, put up an additional bookshelf, resorted all my books, went through all my drawers twice, threw away about two boots full of junk and then fell flat on my face today, after a three day redecorating binge.
Here's a word of advice: do not put seven-drawer chest together with a screwdriver, unless it's sonic. My hands are about to fall off. I spent two plus X-Men movies building that damn thing.
And another fun fact: I thought the second bookshelf would be about halfway filled when I scraped together all the books I had stacked and piled in random places because the first bookshelf was full. Turns out? i can easily fill two shelves with only my private, non-work-related books.
I'll be back to parking them in second row in half a year, mark my words.
Speaking of X-Men: is the new Wolverine going to make me want to crawl into a whole and die from character assassination the way Iron Man III did?
The nice guy didn't work out, the emotionally stunted guy didn't work out, so I went for the sarcastic asshat and, hello, there we go.
Why is it that I write best when I write assholes? Or rather, why is it that I can only seem to empathize with the assholes?
In other news, now that I've decided not to move out, I've pulled apart both my room and the guest room.
The guest room contained ten years of detritus that needed to be sorted out, the stuff from my flat that I won't be using that needed to be boxed up and cleared away and furniture that needed to be moved around. Did all that, moved my closet and old dresser over there, bought a new dresser, put up an additional bookshelf, resorted all my books, went through all my drawers twice, threw away about two boots full of junk and then fell flat on my face today, after a three day redecorating binge.
Here's a word of advice: do not put seven-drawer chest together with a screwdriver, unless it's sonic. My hands are about to fall off. I spent two plus X-Men movies building that damn thing.
And another fun fact: I thought the second bookshelf would be about halfway filled when I scraped together all the books I had stacked and piled in random places because the first bookshelf was full. Turns out? i can easily fill two shelves with only my private, non-work-related books.
I'll be back to parking them in second row in half a year, mark my words.
Speaking of X-Men: is the new Wolverine going to make me want to crawl into a whole and die from character assassination the way Iron Man III did?