Seperis (seperis) wrote,

pretty night for something

I actually meant to watch QaF live tonight, but then remembered--ah, potential mind-numbing Blake-and-Ted angst. And Debbie insanity. And remembered, if I watch after it's taped, there's a wonderous invention known as fast forward. Also, I've *seen* that let-me-cut-important-arteries scene, though apparently, I am physically incapable of fast forwarding through B/J of any kind.

However, such gloomy prospects do not yet keep rainbows from coming, like grey clouds and silver linings and so forth, so I brushed up my first season canon by watching my recently delivered exchange of my Season One DVDs.

I'm using a truly egrerious amount of italics. It's freeing.

My son kicks ass at Zelda, too, no surprise. I'm proud, in that kind of frightening way that's going to lead to more video game purchases, since I think I've finally found a place we can connect well. I also bought him a small shovel this weekend so he can dig up dinosaur bones in the front yard. It also doubles as a threatening weapon to hapless trees and grass that offends him in some way. My sister said he was getting fat. I'm pretty low on the mother-instinct scale, as a rule, but the primitive basics are still alive and kicking, and I doubt she has any idea how close she teetered to the edge of the porch where my foot would have happily deposited her on solid earth.

She has that effect on me a lot.

It's a grumpy thing, I suppose. He's seven. His doctor nods over him approvingly at check-ups. What I know about normal for seven year olds could be fit on the head of a pin with room for dancing angels. Lots of them. I'm sure as hell not putting a seven year old child on a diet without either a written note from God or something more than my sister's muttering, considering she and Kate Moss could share wardrobe tips.

Let's see.

I haven't gotten around to answering my LJ replies from yesterday and I probably won't until tomorrow after work, but *huge* thank you for all the recs. Thanks to your support, me and Noir had a long, long, long affair in which I didn't sleep, didn't really eat, and drank a lot of coffee.

*happy sigh*

*more happy sighing*

*lots and lots of happy sighing*

This reminds me that I need to make her nervous again by asking if she's sure all her Questionable Magazines are put up yet. And look vaguely disapproving while I do it. I'm a huge fan of glass houses and throwing stones.

Fictional Non-Progression

I'm sad to say that Threesome isn't actually doing much, mostly because it hit me that I'm not writing the right story. Okay, that makes no sense. I'm writing one thing while apparently having some kind of existential weirdness going on. I want it to be all dark-sex and vaguely creepy and well, pretty and dirty, and QaF just doesn't really lead to darkness like that. I sometimes think you could Brian in the middle of a major Satanic blood-ritual thing involving goats and bizarre sex and he'd be all, *whatever*, been there, done that, back in the early nineties in Tijuana. and they did it better with *white* goats and really good drugs.

*bangs head on desk*

I never thought I'd live to see the day that a character was so canonically jaded that I couldn't do anything but kind of gape in loving admiration. And you *wonder* why I turned him into a vampire once? What the hell else was there to *do* in sex that he probably hasn't done a few variations of before?

*almost cries*

Okay, and the blood thing. Leave me alone. I embrace my kinks for sharp objects too. I'm all about non-repression and mental health.

I do, however, consider last night a success, since I think I sent burnitbackwards and nonchop into active tears writing Brian/Lindsay sex, a concept that feels the wrong kind of kinky and extremely creepy, like finding out that Santa Claus is doing the Smurfs in between dropping random presents off at suburban houses.

I need better ways to make comparisons.

I'm also grumpy because this entire cancer-storyline is affecting me in very strange, Nightingale-ish ways that involve long bedside glances, Justin angst, and Brian's non-alcoholic, mandatory trips to the bathroom to bond with the toilet, and *so* not my thing.

Well, you'd think so, but no. I snippetted out some of the urge for nonchop. If it could involve porn, since Cowlip has become all creepy and non-porny with the characters we actually want to see fucking (what the hell is *up* with that? Growing up, lalala, grown-ups have *sex*, dammit, that's pretty much the only consolation we have for giving up mudpies and getting up at six in the morning)...what was I saying?

Right, if I could work something porny in there, not so bad, but things struck me on the realism front. Not that I embrace realism or anything, but still, there are limits. So far. I don't consider them unbendable if this terrible vortex of sexlessness continues.

*sighs* I should just do that werewolf thing and be happy. Very, very happy. get disowned, but be happy.

Yet here I sit, suddenly assaulted with the urge to narrate Justin's selfless nursing and Brian's silent, sarcastic misery and this is probably the most terrified I've been of my own head ever, and I'm including that time I was thinking that writing Brian/Ted sex was an actual idea, not a perversion of nature.

....oi, my son just pulled his tooth out. He's starting to look like a prizefighter or a professional hockey player. And it's after midnight.

*mulls* I think, in a normal world, he'd be in bed. He's very, very lucky that I have no clue what normal people do.

Now, going to play toothfairy. God, this is fun.
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