huh, I guess I *did* write that...
1. I have been trapped in my house since Sunday and am slowly going insane from cabin fever. O, sheets of ice shellacking the roads, why will you not melt? I had to take a hammer to the front walk in order to break up enough ice to start prying it up with a spade; there is no way in hell I'm doing that on all the streets in our neighborhood.
2. I, along with apparently the rest of Atlanta, am amusing myself on Twitter. Best, geekiest hashtag for the current snowmaggedon? #Hothlanta.1
3. Do not lecture me, O Creatures from the Frigid North, about how wimpy we Southerners are with regards to snow. I have lived in Michigan. I can drive in snow. I do not mind the cold. But I have a hard time believing that anyone could safely drive on some of the surface streets around here without tires studded with nails. And a grappling hook. Perhaps the ice will start melting tomorrow? I hope. Because I cannot do another DVD marathon at this point.
4. I am so bored at this point that I cannot even write a coherent paragraph without becoming completely distracted and forgetting what I want to say.
...what?
5. Oh! That's why I started this entry. A couple days ago, someone commented on an old SGA story snippet that I wrote for a Badfic Mini Ficathon hosted by svmadelyn. Basically, everyone submitted a really, really hideous summary for a story, and then they were assigned at random to various authors, and we had to write a story based on the summary we received. I had totally forgotten that I'd ever written such a thing. Bizarrely enough, it's sort of on the same subject as a (very bad) poem I wrote a couple weeks back. Huh. Weird.
6. Anyway. In the interests of central archiving and such, I thought I'd toss the story up over here, just so I don't lose it again:
101 Uses for Spell Check
by SomeInstant
Summary: John and Rodney met once when they were young and had sekrit sex. Much later, in Atlantis - John remembers and Rodney doesn't! Can the rugged soldier convince the brilliant blue-eyed physicist that they're meant to be?
Summary written by: yin_again
Rating: PG for language, which includes the wholesale butchery of English orthography.
A/N: Let's consider this a riff on the summary, shall we?
*
John leaned against the wall of the shower, still too bleary-eyed to be fully bipedal. Bed, he thought. Bed is good, and nodded to himself for emphasis. But he had a galaxy to save, and scientists to annoy, and if he stayed in the shower too long it was possible the world would end.2
"In my next life," he announced to the foggy mirror as he toweled off, "I will hibernate through mornings." That sounded good. "I will hibernate through mornings," he continued while searching for just the right black t-shirt, the one that really said Friday, "and I will have an endless supply of beer and football." John picked up his comm from the counter, slid it into place, and was about to add something about buying his own really really fast jet to the hibernation list when it happened.
"Col. Shepperd?" It was Rodney, but-- hmm. Perhaps he had a cold?
"What can I do for you, McKay?" he asked.
"Oh, good," said the voice in his ear. "It hasn't gotten to you yet."
John tightened the holster on his thigh. "Is there a problem?" It was a little early in the morning to start shooting things, but he could deal. And if the crisis was anywhere near the mess, maybe he could swing by and grab a muffin on his way.
"Well, yes," Rodney said, sounding annoyed. "I don't think it's to serious-- crap. Too serious. But we could use some help in Lab Six if your not busy right now. You're. If you're not busy."
"You know, Rodney," John said, heading out of his quarters, "I know it's not wormhole physics, but I kinda thought you'd know the difference between a personal pronoun and a contraction."
"Bite me," McKay said, syrupy sweet. "I will blow up your shower-- hey. How'd you know witch your I was using?"
John shrugged into the comm. "Dunno. And it's which, not witch." He paused. "Huh. Witch. Which. Witch. Which. Witch--"
"Thank you for the demonstration, Cornell--"
"Cornell?" John snorted.
"You see why I used the abbreviation before?" Rodney sounded seriously miffed. "As I said earlier: bite me. I haven't had breakfast, I'm sleep deprived and surrounded by idiots using visible comma splices, and more to the point, the cofee's misspelled. Get you're ass into the lab and help me fix this."
John picked up the pace and decided to forego the muffin stop. "I have this plan," he told Rodney has he ducked into a transporter. "In my next life, I am going to hibernate through all mornings."
"Oh; god," Rodney said, his voice breaking over the awkward semi-colon. "Me to."
Note:The rest of this story is not properly written out, mainly because of the pain and suffering the grammatical/orthographic errors would cause. (Also because I am lazy and need more time to do this well.) But this is what happens:
John arrives in Lab Six, and notices that something's gone all funny. Rodney seems fine-- really, really fine, actually-- his biceps are kinda mesmerizing and wow, those are some piercing baby blues and jesus mary and joseph, but does he have an ass. The rest of the scientists are a little worse for wear, and sort of faded into the background (John has the urge to call them all Johnson or Smith, when he has to call them anything at all.) The spelling has, if anything, gotten worse.
"Whats going on?" John asks.
MacKay winces, and says something about how Zalanka touched an Ancient device-- it looked sort of like a big rainbow-colored eraser (erasure? eraser? erasurer?)-- and then the problems started.
"But that doesn't make any sense, Rodney! Zala-- shit. Zalank-- shit! Zalenka doesn't even have the ATA gene!" John protests.
"And now its starting to effect my work!" Rodney wails, ignoring John's stunning logic. "I cant' get the godamn apostrofes where I want them, and I ve never used so many fucking exclaimation points in my life and its driving me crazy!" Crystal tears stand out in his azure eyes, and John really really wants to brain himself for using the word azure, given that it's his POV.3
Braining inclinations aside, John finds himself murmuring dreamily, "You drive me crazy, Rodney."
He blinks.
Rodney blinks.
John thinks for a second. It's always harder than it looks on television. "Do you remember that time I transfered to your high school and we lost our virginity together and then we were tragickally seperated?" he asks.
"Nope," Rodney says. "My sexual history is to patched and tragic for me to remember the only time I truely made love."
"Oh, good," John says. "There was a lot of throbbing and no lube, so thats-- that's probably for the best."
"Oh," says Rodney. "Throbbing?" he repeets.
"Shut up and hand me the doohickey so I can turn it off, MacKay."
*
And then I stepped away from the crackpipe, and John and Rodney managed to spell their last names correctly, and all was right with the world.
7. Now. Aren't you glad I rescued that from comment-fic purgatory? (Please don't answer that.)
1. Note for Northerners and other strange creatures: please, do not refer to my city as Hotlanta anymore. It is beyond lame, and no one I know uses the term without wincing in extreme pain. Yes. We get it: summers in Atlanta are hot, and Hotlanta is a very clever portmanteau. Yay, you. Now please go drown in a gallon of sweet tea. If you must refer to my fair city by any silly nickname, we would prefer that you call it the ATL. Still lame, just less so.
2. No, really. It might.
3. Seriously. How can anyone be truly rugged and manly and still use the word azure? Excepting, of course, Scrabble situations.
2. I, along with apparently the rest of Atlanta, am amusing myself on Twitter. Best, geekiest hashtag for the current snowmaggedon? #Hothlanta.1
3. Do not lecture me, O Creatures from the Frigid North, about how wimpy we Southerners are with regards to snow. I have lived in Michigan. I can drive in snow. I do not mind the cold. But I have a hard time believing that anyone could safely drive on some of the surface streets around here without tires studded with nails. And a grappling hook. Perhaps the ice will start melting tomorrow? I hope. Because I cannot do another DVD marathon at this point.
4. I am so bored at this point that I cannot even write a coherent paragraph without becoming completely distracted and forgetting what I want to say.
...what?
5. Oh! That's why I started this entry. A couple days ago, someone commented on an old SGA story snippet that I wrote for a Badfic Mini Ficathon hosted by svmadelyn. Basically, everyone submitted a really, really hideous summary for a story, and then they were assigned at random to various authors, and we had to write a story based on the summary we received. I had totally forgotten that I'd ever written such a thing. Bizarrely enough, it's sort of on the same subject as a (very bad) poem I wrote a couple weeks back. Huh. Weird.
6. Anyway. In the interests of central archiving and such, I thought I'd toss the story up over here, just so I don't lose it again:
101 Uses for Spell Check
by SomeInstant
Summary: John and Rodney met once when they were young and had sekrit sex. Much later, in Atlantis - John remembers and Rodney doesn't! Can the rugged soldier convince the brilliant blue-eyed physicist that they're meant to be?
Summary written by: yin_again
Rating: PG for language, which includes the wholesale butchery of English orthography.
A/N: Let's consider this a riff on the summary, shall we?
*
John leaned against the wall of the shower, still too bleary-eyed to be fully bipedal. Bed, he thought. Bed is good, and nodded to himself for emphasis. But he had a galaxy to save, and scientists to annoy, and if he stayed in the shower too long it was possible the world would end.2
"In my next life," he announced to the foggy mirror as he toweled off, "I will hibernate through mornings." That sounded good. "I will hibernate through mornings," he continued while searching for just the right black t-shirt, the one that really said Friday, "and I will have an endless supply of beer and football." John picked up his comm from the counter, slid it into place, and was about to add something about buying his own really really fast jet to the hibernation list when it happened.
"Col. Shepperd?" It was Rodney, but-- hmm. Perhaps he had a cold?
"What can I do for you, McKay?" he asked.
"Oh, good," said the voice in his ear. "It hasn't gotten to you yet."
John tightened the holster on his thigh. "Is there a problem?" It was a little early in the morning to start shooting things, but he could deal. And if the crisis was anywhere near the mess, maybe he could swing by and grab a muffin on his way.
"Well, yes," Rodney said, sounding annoyed. "I don't think it's to serious-- crap. Too serious. But we could use some help in Lab Six if your not busy right now. You're. If you're not busy."
"You know, Rodney," John said, heading out of his quarters, "I know it's not wormhole physics, but I kinda thought you'd know the difference between a personal pronoun and a contraction."
"Bite me," McKay said, syrupy sweet. "I will blow up your shower-- hey. How'd you know witch your I was using?"
John shrugged into the comm. "Dunno. And it's which, not witch." He paused. "Huh. Witch. Which. Witch. Which. Witch--"
"Thank you for the demonstration, Cornell--"
"Cornell?" John snorted.
"You see why I used the abbreviation before?" Rodney sounded seriously miffed. "As I said earlier: bite me. I haven't had breakfast, I'm sleep deprived and surrounded by idiots using visible comma splices, and more to the point, the cofee's misspelled. Get you're ass into the lab and help me fix this."
John picked up the pace and decided to forego the muffin stop. "I have this plan," he told Rodney has he ducked into a transporter. "In my next life, I am going to hibernate through all mornings."
"Oh; god," Rodney said, his voice breaking over the awkward semi-colon. "Me to."
Note:The rest of this story is not properly written out, mainly because of the pain and suffering the grammatical/orthographic errors would cause. (Also because I am lazy and need more time to do this well.) But this is what happens:
John arrives in Lab Six, and notices that something's gone all funny. Rodney seems fine-- really, really fine, actually-- his biceps are kinda mesmerizing and wow, those are some piercing baby blues and jesus mary and joseph, but does he have an ass. The rest of the scientists are a little worse for wear, and sort of faded into the background (John has the urge to call them all Johnson or Smith, when he has to call them anything at all.) The spelling has, if anything, gotten worse.
"Whats going on?" John asks.
MacKay winces, and says something about how Zalanka touched an Ancient device-- it looked sort of like a big rainbow-colored eraser (erasure? eraser? erasurer?)-- and then the problems started.
"But that doesn't make any sense, Rodney! Zala-- shit. Zalank-- shit! Zalenka doesn't even have the ATA gene!" John protests.
"And now its starting to effect my work!" Rodney wails, ignoring John's stunning logic. "I cant' get the godamn apostrofes where I want them, and I ve never used so many fucking exclaimation points in my life and its driving me crazy!" Crystal tears stand out in his azure eyes, and John really really wants to brain himself for using the word azure, given that it's his POV.3
Braining inclinations aside, John finds himself murmuring dreamily, "You drive me crazy, Rodney."
He blinks.
Rodney blinks.
John thinks for a second. It's always harder than it looks on television. "Do you remember that time I transfered to your high school and we lost our virginity together and then we were tragickally seperated?" he asks.
"Nope," Rodney says. "My sexual history is to patched and tragic for me to remember the only time I truely made love."
"Oh, good," John says. "There was a lot of throbbing and no lube, so thats-- that's probably for the best."
"Oh," says Rodney. "Throbbing?" he repeets.
"Shut up and hand me the doohickey so I can turn it off, MacKay."
*
And then I stepped away from the crackpipe, and John and Rodney managed to spell their last names correctly, and all was right with the world.
7. Now. Aren't you glad I rescued that from comment-fic purgatory? (Please don't answer that.)
1. Note for Northerners and other strange creatures: please, do not refer to my city as Hotlanta anymore. It is beyond lame, and no one I know uses the term without wincing in extreme pain. Yes. We get it: summers in Atlanta are hot, and Hotlanta is a very clever portmanteau. Yay, you. Now please go drown in a gallon of sweet tea. If you must refer to my fair city by any silly nickname, we would prefer that you call it the ATL. Still lame, just less so.
2. No, really. It might.
3. Seriously. How can anyone be truly rugged and manly and still use the word azure? Excepting, of course, Scrabble situations.