November 27th, 2007


my soul, it speaks in the language of dear god no

So I was sitting here.

I mean, actually, present tense. I am sitting here, waiting for the intepreter to get on the line. And while I was staring blankly at my screen ane listenign to what seems to be the sound of defenseless musical instruments being forced to perform a whalesong-esque emo-concerto, I idly considered--I actually really thought about--posting an anonymous meme something.

So this is how it starts, I marveled, suddenly understanding so much more about fandom than I ever have. When you reach a certain, let us say "critical mass" of mindnumbing boredom, you suddenly begin to think the unthinkable. Or at least, the kind of thing that would require, let's face it, more attention than I can really give anything other than, maybe, my fingernails. When they are pretty. Which right now? So very not.

Hmm. I should do a meme. No, wait. I will do a poll on what meme I should do. Wait. I should do a meme about polls on memes!

Just think, it's only like, nine am right now. I have all day to keep this up.
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children of dune - leto 1

so can I just label it h/? with ? standing for "pretend there is comfort eventually? Probably?"


So--say you are writing a hurt/comfort. There's hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, more hurt, ooh, psychic hurt and then revenge and you think, right, time for comfort! Comfort! COMFORT AND PORN YAY! Because seriously, what the hell is the point of torture if you can't heal it with sex? Or hell, don't end it with everyone pre-suicidal? Is it that hard?

Strangely, yes, yes it is.

This story is creepy and I'm the one writing it.

Right. Writing trauma. Gah.
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