November 11th, 2010

children of dune - leto 1

there really are invisible computer people

Dear Invisible People Inside My Computer,

So like, on Friday, my son calls me at work and says, there's this box that says it goes in the refrigerator; do you want me to put it in there? The answer was yes, and to be fair, I thought he was talking about the box talking to him, so I didn't want to invalidate his talking box.

(if you say any of that paragraph surprised you, please refer to tag 'child')

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children of dune - leto 1

when fanfiction is life but not an instruction manual

Things that are way too unsettlingly true:

Entirely Covered In Your Invisible Name by [profile] wordstrings, Sherlock, Sherlock/John, which yes, this is a rec, but for the record, I just twitched through the second part on the second re-read having a moment of profound connection with an earworm of a song.

My worst one in memory--God, so strangely appropriate--was the chorus of Fallout Boy's "Sugar, We're Going Down"; just the chorus and two lyrics in the middle of the second part. Four hours. It did not fucking end. Hour one, I was interpreting it saying for me to kill my computer with my stapler, which is not exactly unreasonable all things considered; by hour four I had to sing the fucking thing straight through because listening to it wasn't enough to get rid of it and I no longer actually cared about dignity or, to be honest, the sanctity of human life.

I think that worked, if I remember correctly, but while reading the fic, all I could think was there is a pharmacy two blocks away, will this work? and being really hopeful because it's best to be prepared for these things; not like it can't happen again. As it turns out, no, shooting up liquid oxy, anti-psychotics, and LSD will not help, even a little, and sure, you could say, fanfic is not a manual on how to deal with impending psychosis via Fall Out boy, and ooh, how easy it must be for you when you don't carry the memory of I'll be your number one with a bullet; a loaded god complex, cock it and pull it until you wondered if that wasn't a metaphor but instructions from space or perhaps fruit juice boxes.

The really bemusing part is that I have no idea how to shoot up without stabbing the needle through my arm; when I get my blood drawn, it's a multistick production and sometimes requires a second person when the first goes to have a rage blackout in the bathroom (last checkup before surgery; really reassuring). I'm not saying that would have stopped me (I would have just held a pharmacy hostage in the name of Fall Out Boy after walking there in four inch heels--the apocalypse wouldn't have stopped me) but now I'm thinking, I should learn? Just in case.

...oh please, like you wouldn't. Four hours. Six hours, we'd have a new religion sweeping the nation right now with me trying to find a technical virgin for a workable messiah, or Wal-Mart for a very realistic looking facsimile thereof. Read the lyrics. It's in there.

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