This is really just a drive by to let you all know that I still exist, honestly! I was doing some hard drive spring cleaning last night and I found this, and I thought, "Huh. That is not as bad as the yuletide anxiety made me think it was. In fact, that is rather decent! I shall post it to the livejournals in order to prove my continued existence!" So that is what I am doing.

We'll call this a coming attraction to a crazy post in a livejournal near you (*cough* mine) but, y'all, Dark Shadows Revival is on DVD. There are no words.

( the devil was wiser.  )

okay this post is post brought to you by panic. panic and stress. and caffeine. panic, stress, caffeine and nicotine. and a fanatical devotion to the pope.

i'll come in again.

let's try this in list format. compare and contrast the following bits of information:

tonight i had to:

write three papers

tonight i have:

waxed a friend
bought a wig
got in an argument about the existence of an objective reality
drank so much goddamned caffeine i think my whole body is going to explode and the left over pieces will quiver on the walls with the trembling energy that now courses through my wild veins.
written about three pages of one paper, sent off an email for an extension on another, and...yeah. okay. i have five hours.

i'm also starting to spell everything phonetically. i think i'm in a regressive state brought on by stress.

it is time for the crazy eyes, my friends. may their reign be short.

Hello mes amis! I have had a lovely weekend, and I hope you all have, too. I want to say thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday on Saturday! *hugs you all* I was all warmed and happy to get the birthday love! Danke, danke, mille grazie and merci!

I am, apparently, feeling like switching up the language every now and again today. It's cool, though. Ain't ever too many ways to say thank you.

I'ma be up all night paper writing. Oh yes. Oh yes, my children. So, I stumbled over a meme that looks like it could yield entertaining responses, and this is it. So let me know:

If you had me alone, locked up in your house for twenty-four hours and I had to do whatever you wanted me to, what would you have me do? All comments will be permanently screened because it's a secret. Then repost this in your LJ. You might be surprised with the responses you get.

Sometimes, I surprise myself. I do things and I think, "Huh. I didn't think I was that person," and then I go on about my life with a new found sense of who and what I am. Today, I've discovered that I am the person who can and will wear a pink gingham tube top. I am wearing it right now, with a lovely little sweater, and I look adorable. Yes, I am that adorable, adorable person. *bats eyelashes*

Now, I know that everyone's asking who their fandom boyfriend is, but I won't ask. I'll tell. My new fandom boyfriend is J.D. from Scrubs. I want you all to just close your eyes, and visualize the clutzy, crazy, insane internal monologue and very nutty ideas that would result from this union. That is correct. J.D. and I are made for each other.

I was walking down the street today and a little girl was walking with her big brother (or very young father - we're talking late teens, but it's possible), and she smiled at me and then looked at me and said, "When I get old, I want to look like her." Isn't that wonderful? Barring the neccesary "ohmygod I'm totally not old, but I can see how old I would look to a 3 year old" freak out, I mean. Mainly though: wonderful.

The following is an actual conversation with my father over IMs. The topic I am trying to discuss is the Nif!Bro's fantastic New York High School Field Trip this upcoming weekend.

Nif!Dad: HI HI PUFFY AMIYOUMI SHOW!!!
nifra_idril: Will he have any time to even go to Cafe Roma with me or anything during this trip? I really want him to meet some of my friends.
nifra_idril: HI HI PUFFY AMIYOUMI SHOW!
Nif!Dad: HAI HAI PUPHEE AMMI OOMI SHOW!
nifra_idril: Phonetics!
Nif!Dad: Asionics!
nifra_idril: Academics! Histrionics!
nifra_idril: But really - will he have any free time?
Nif!Dad: I have also been told, "No grandparents, no uncles" as in they won't be leaving the hotel except as part of a group outing.
nifra_idril: But -- really. Sisters! This sister could go TO the hotel?
Nif!Dad: I will, of course, ask again, plus I believe that they are allowed visitors at the hotel
nifra_idril: Okay, cool.
Nif!Dad: Playah, I believe the term you're searching for is "sistahs."
nifra_idril: Say to his teacher, "Hey, can you help a sistah out?"
Nif!Dad: Well, if you have ever met his teacher, you would know what I mean when I say that I believe the answer would be an unqualified "NO!"
nifra_idril: Why she gotta hate a playa?
nifra_idril: Can't she show no love? For her homies?
Nif!Dad: WOHS IMUYIMA YFFUP IH IH
nifra_idril: Sometimes, you scare me a lot.
Nif!Dad: H
I

H
I
P
U
F
F
Y
A
M
Y
U
M
I

S
H
O
W
nifra_idril: This is one of those times.
nifra_idril: Did you get into the Easter candy or something?
Nif!Dad: No Peeps, no jelly beans; I am mocked cruelly by my own purchasing choices.


In case any of you were wondering where I got it - and by "it", I mean my effervescent charm and COMPLETE INSANITY - that would be where.

1.

I sometimes don't charge my cell phone on purpose. I know it's bad, but sometimes i kind of look at the last bar of battery, and then I look at my charger, and then I look at my solitude and I think, "You know, I could be unreachable for a while and that would be fine by me." I think this is a hold over of spending an entire summer cell phone-less, and my incredibly bad phone karma of the past few years, but sometimes I like the idea that if somebody wants to talk to me, they're really going to have to work for it. Plus, I like not getting all the somewhat urgent, "Oh my God where are you, you have a car and I was really hoping you could _________." phone calls, which are generally all about coffee and cigarettes, which I think says a lot about your average college student (or maybe just my group of friends). Either way, sometimes not setting the alarm and not getting a million phone calls is nice, especially when you've spent two weeks in motion and you just need to stop, collaborate (with yourself?), and listen (to nothing?). (I can't help myself sometimes with the song lyrics. It's a sickness.)

2.

I think I enjoy cleaning my ears too much. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment that is rivaled only by cutting my toe nails.

3.

I have trained myself to actively crave ramen noodles. Oh, the sodium. Delicious, delicious sodium.

I am choosing to think of this as a life skill - could I perhaps put it on a resume? Also, I'm starting to wonder if I can put everything on a resume. Things from, "I make quiche!" to "Dude, I can totally head bang better than anyone you know, probably. Check out my head of hair!" These are the things that I will probably not need in an office setting, but I can't imagine why not.

4.

I become irrationally furious at all weight loss commercials. This is because it's always like this: "Hey, if you're fat, then you're unhappy! But if you're fixing your body situation you're going to want to dance and smile and you'll have friends! The only way to have friends is to lose weight! Oh, God, lose that weight! Lose it, fatty!" It makes me want to shake the television and say things like, "Do you know how many girls you just convinced that bulimea is the way to go, motherfucking ad agents!?"

5.

My window overlooks the yard of my across the street neighbors. It's an entire family from grandparents down that lives in one big white, gabled house. In the front yard, the grandmother is gardening. She's wearing a red flowery skirt and a bright yellow apron and a big blue straw hat. Every now and then she stops and rubs at the lower part of her back before bending back to the earth, which is dark and still wet. When she digs her spade into the ground she does it with regular even motions - it looks amazingly the same every time. And for all that she's old, and the white fuzz of her hair escapse from the confines of the hat, wisps over her thin, brown neck, as she digs, it looks perfectly effortless. Her arm pulls back and goes forward, and dirt spills off the dark metal like she's moving in water. Like her bones don't hurt, which they must, because when she walks her legs shake and she holds onto whatever's closest to her. But now, she turns digs at an even pace, humming to herself a tune that the wind carries into my apartment every now and then - just little snitches of something that sounds like a hymn whenever the breeze strikes right. Every now and then, she turns her face toward the tall, white barked tree above her, and the cloud dotted sky above that, and she laughs.

"Lord have mercy," she said one time. "The real spring has come, at last."

1.

There are several different kinds of rain, and I think this week it's safe to say that I've walked through nearly all of them. There is the pleasant rain of last night, which falls pretty gently and makes a nice shushing noise when it does, and it alleviates the mugginess of the air and when you breathe, it feels fresh.

There is the somewhat less pleasant, but still pretty okay rain of today which falls in drips and drabs like a petulant child trying to make up its mind about what it wants to be.

Then there is the totally fucking horrid rain of earlier this week, that comes in slant-wise and stings your eyes and doesn't bead up on tree branches like little glass circlets but instead collects in mud-holes and soaks your shoes and your socks and it's cold and it smells like wet sweaters.

Also this week - the snow. The snow is the red headed stepchild of this week, weatherwise, and it had best know when to make itself scarce or I'ma have to take action.

2.

Every joint in my body makes a frightening crunching noise when it cracks, and today every joint in my body has taken to cracking and popping like I'm fucking Rice Krispies. I do not approve.

3.

I have serious and abiding thoughts about Battlestar Galactica, and Starbuck, who is the Grand High Poohbah In Training of the Good Ol' Boys Soceity, God love her.

4.

I may, or may not, have had a nightmare last night which involved me bludgeoning a koala bear with a fish while it waved air brushed acrylic claws of doom in my face.

The "may not" in the above paragraph indicates the shame I feel that my sleeping mind is so fucking crazed.

5.

I do not often lose my temper, but y'all, I lost it but good this week, and after a full day of stewing, I've decided that I feel the better for it. Fly free, temper. Fly free.

6.

I am completely horrified about the whole Duke Lacross team thing. I really don't have much to say beyond that - I know a lot of horrible things happen every day, but this is just so apalling that it's sitting with me, deep in my ribcage, heavy and hard and horrible.

There are times in life, when an idea hits you. Not one of those earth shattering epiphany type ideas, nor even a niggling back-brain story idea that whispers at you about this one feeling that you can maybe create on paper if you just sift through the words you have long enough. No, these ideas are simply brilliant, though somewhat shakey in terms of execution or analysis, and you believe in them with your whole soul, because honestly, you think, there is simply nothing more true or awesome.

I'd like to share some of these ideas with you.

1. ARG! AVAST YE, UNHAND THAT MINIVAN!

I'd like to state for the records that pirates are unmitigatedly cool. Minivans, on the other hand, are not so cool. BUT! They do have those doors that slide open on either side, leaving the middle section of the minivan as a breeze-through or staging area, which allows the supple mind (yes, I called my mind supple - what are you gonna do about it, huh? Punk?) to think of a way to combine the cool of pirates with the functionality of the minivan.

I want you to imagine that part of the minivan as a staging area for a highway pirate attack. Stay with me, stay with me, all shall be revealed in time.

Here's the scenario: you pull up on along side a car that seems to have particularly interesting loot (read: good road snacks or rocking cds!), and with the launcher that you will have attached to your minivan, you launch not one, but two grappling hooks onto the other vessel. Then with monkey-like agility you and your crew of miscreants board the other car and procure the booty.

A sample conversation would go like this:

Minivan Pirate: Avast ye! Hand over the gummy worms and frappucinos!

Driver: ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?

Minivan Pirate: You have been boarded! We are purloining your sugary goodness!

Driver: WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?

Then, after confiscating the goods, the pirates return to the staging area of the minivan, and the minivan flotilla makes its way toward safe haven, which I imagine as a strip mall. Perhaps with a gym that's advertising a pilates class, and a moderately priced food chain restuarant.

This parking lot will be filled with minivans that are proudly bearing a full-rear window sticker of the Jolly Roger, and a scurvy lot of pirates who lounge in the half opened vehicles, tearing viciously into the coolers worth of road snacks they will have...liberated. There could be rival minivan pirate gangs, and vendettas within them.

It would be like drama on the high seas...but on the highways. Tell me it's not cool. Go on. I won't believe you.

2. The Hangover as Essential, or Chaser Plus is the Enemy

I have talked about this before, and some lucky members of the world have seen me hung over, and friends, I will be brief on this point, but I believe that eliminating the hang over is a drastic error in judgment as the hangover is a neccesary part of human survival, if that human happens to have been over-served the previous evening.

The hangover gives you a fuzzy blanket wrapped over all the stupid shit you may, or may not, have done the night before. The hangover makes survival your first priority, and suddenly it doesn't matter that at five in the morning you drunk dialed high school friends to tell them that you've always thought they wore colors that spoke to you of a certain ennui, and that you wish that they could, like you, partake in the joy of life. The hangover makes you taste the sweet, sweet water in a way you've never tasted it before -- delicious, cool deliverence. The hangover, though not to be enjoyed, does give you a certain perspective on the world that cannot be duplicated.

The hangover is a punishment, and you know this well, but it makes you feel a little bit like you're a trooper. It makes you feel like you've earned the face-down bed-flop in the afternoon. It makes you wear your sunglasses inside sometimes, and that kind of makes you look like a rockstar.

The hangover is painful, but then every birth is. The hangover, my friends, is the buffer between you and the actual world you inhabit until you can mentally cope with it. In conclusion: Chaser Plus, you are the devil.

3. Nicholas Sparks' Machiavellian Plot

I freely admit that I love mawkishly maudlin movies. I will stare at the screan with weepy eyes, clutching at my kleenex with a trembling lip as the consumptive heroine collapses gracefully into the strong arms of her stalwart hero. I do not deny this.

I enjoy A Walk to Remember. I enjoy The Notebook. I'm not proud.

But I am convinced that Nicholas Sparks is slowly, secretely poisoning our minds. He draws you in, he gets you involved. You think abstractly at first about how you may or may not be comfortable with the Christian propaganda, or the gender politics, or the inherent social commentary or the jingoism that floats every so closely above the head of the nostalgia upon which he relies. For the first few moments, you may roll your eyes. You may snort. You may comment on ridiculous dialogue or perceived mediocrity.

But then, your eyes glaze over and you fall deep, deep into the earnest love story he's showing you. You're hypnotized - it's like the man is fucking Rasputin. There is nothing you can do.

Lifetime movies do not even do this as intensely. Those you still carry a sense of irony with you while you watch. Nicholas Sparks annihilates your irony. He leaves you no choice. He makes a zombie of you, and you (and I) love it. He is clearly in league with the forces of darkness.

I have returned to school, and the life that I have created for myself apart from the roiling mass of family that is mine. I love them all, but they are like a herd of drunken bear cubs -- adorable, dangerous, and somewhat insane as a concept. I have internet for the first time in almost a week, which is nice, and yet somehow does not actually make it easier to get the things done that I need to get done (witness: I am LJ-ing instead of _______ <--- insert thing I need to do there).

I simply had to share the horror, though. And the horror is this:

I am rifling through my mother's desk, looking for a lighter, as I plan to go outside and sneak a cigarette behind the garage as though I was fourteen years old out of the desire to be a Positive Role Model for the Siblets, who are all still very impressionable and treat me as though I am a god and they are my creepy and troubling cult, chanting in front of pictures of me and repeating the wisdom that I have handed down to them ("Dude, don't eat that shit, it will give you gas," forever and ever amen). Now, in a desk, most people keep pens. Most people keep paper. Most people keep odds and ends.

My mother, apparently, keeps condoms and lube in her desk. I found this out by opening The Wrong Drawer and finding the offending items. My response was to slam the drawer shut, throw up my hands, shriek "Unclean! Unclean! God, unclean!" as I ran from the room. I still have this full body shudder thing happening as I think of it.

As a dutiful child would, I want my mother to be happy. I want her to be in a good relationship, with someone who will hold her hand, and watch Antiques Roadshow with her, and cuddle with her. This cuddling is to be fully clothed, you understand. Any and all kissing would have to be church appropriate kissing. Behind closed doors, they would discuss art or play chess or simply dissolve into balls of white light. I don't think about it too hard, and with good reason -- which is that she is my mother. Perhaps I'm too sensitive, but "mother" and "condom" belong nowhere near one another in any configuration of words.

The horror, I say, the horror.

Today I saw a high school teacher of mine on the street, and then we spent about a half hour talking about my geeky high school extracurricular (mock trial) the way that you see people talking about their football glory days. It wasn't until my littlest sister coughed and said "I don't want...your life" ala Varsity Blues that I realized how retarded we were being.

To compensate for it, I bought her ice cream and let her play her music in the car. I even sung (can it be called that if what you're doing is hesitantly attempting to scream along with a very angry screamo type song?) with her. This has redeemed me.

But! The best part of the day - are you guys ready for this? I realized, like the pure genius I am, that I could download the last epi of BSG on iTunes and then? I could watch it finally instead of poring over the TWOP recap and teasing details out of Lyra. It was wild. (Yeah, it really did take me this long to put the whole thing together in my head. I'm a real sharp one.)

But the thing about finally watching Lay Down Your Burdens 2 is that pretty much all I want to do now is write Cylon Baby Daddies AU, or just BSG fic in general, and what I really, truly must be writing is remix.

Send me strength, friends. I will need it.

1.

It's my first night home, and I'm curled up on the couch with my thirteen year old sister. She's sullenly glaring at the television, saying repeatedly "There's nothing on." I reach over into her lap and grab for the remote, and after a brief struggle during which I am forced to resort to rubbing whipped cream from our desert into her hair, I get the remote.

"You," I tell her, "just don't know where to look."

So I turn on the WB, only to find Supernatural. She rolls her eyes and scoffs and throws a pillow at me, saying, "OMG (let me note that she actually said the individual letters - like this "Oh-Em-Gee"), the WB is totally for losers," with all the derision that only a thirteen year old girl is capable of.

Undaunted, I just nod at the screen as the Winchester-mobile rumbles across a road. "Wait for it," I say, patting her leg. "Wait for it."

At the first close up on Padalecki and Ackles, her jaw drops open and she lets out a squeal of high pitched giggle, complete with full puppy-like body writhe.

I begin counting off on my fingers for the inevitable explosion of glee. It takes until six for her to shriek, "OH-EM-GEE!! THEY ARE SO HOT!"

"Oh, I know," I say smugly, smirking at her.

She sputters on and on and on about the various hotness, until finally I smack her with a pillow and say, "You're making it hard for me to enjoy Dean."

"Dean? Oh-Em-Gee, Dean is way not the hot brother," she says, and I freeze, staring at her.

The pillow fight that follows that pronouncement is epic, and ends when my mother walks into the room to find me pinning the littlest Nif!Sister to the couch and waving the bowl with whipped cream near her face, yelling, "Who's the hottest, huh, huh? Who's the hottest, kid?"

"SAM!!" she keeps howling, and then we both notice my mother, standing there.

She's got her arms crossed and a hand over her mouth, her eyebrows are about to merge with her hairline.

"Oh. Hi, Mom," I say, smiling really wide and sitting back and pulling the littlest Nif!Sister into a hug.

"Girls," she says sternly, and we both stiffen. "You both need to realize that Dean is the hot brother, all right? And stop playing with your food."

Then she walks out.

After a second of blinking shock, I turn to my sister and stick out my tongue. "See?" I say. "Even Mom thinks so."

"You're how old again?" the Nif!Sister asks, glaring, and it is only then that I feel shame.

2.

The supermarket, and my mother and I are shopping together while cheerfully exchanging family gossip. She's just gotten through telling me about the new diet one aunt is trying out and I've just told her about my cousin's secret plan to get our aunt to send him surfing on break, and we're rounding a corner, and her face goes white.

She kind of bends her knees until her face is directly parallel to the handle bar and her entire body is hidden behind the metal of the shopping cart she's pushing, and she hisses, "Oh, shit."

"Mom?" I say, concerned.

"No, no, no, do not turn around, do not look at me, you are shopping alone, you're shopping alone - Oh FUCK, stand in front of me!" she whisper yells, pulling at me, until she's hidden between me and the cereal behind her.

Now, I am pretty good at going with the flow, so I pick up a box of cereal and pretend to be engrossed in it. I read the ingredients aloud, with a furrowed brow, nodding to myself as though I really care about the mono di-glyrcerides or whatever happen to be in it. A steady stream of people is passing by, and my mother is still crouched against my shins.

"Mom?" I finally ask out of the side of my mouth. "What the fuck?"

"Just a little while longer," she says frantically. "Please, please."

So I stay where I am until she finally pushes me away and slaps her sunglasses on her face.

"So, explanation?" I say, finally. "Because that was all a little too weird."

She takes a deep breath and purses her lips to the side, finally grates out, "I told my ex-boyfriend I was moving to South America because I couldn't bear to tell him I just wasn't attracted to him. He couldn't see me." and saunters off.

I, left holding the cereal, shake my head, and put it back carefully.

My mother pops her head back around the aisle and says, "What? You thought you were the only one in this family who got themself into weird situations?"

y'all, there is an unidentified smell in my apartment and a hell of an ache in my head and belly. the latter i blame on burger king, the former is pretty much up for grabs as it is un. i. dentified. also, rank.

mainly, this is just to say: hello. i love porn. the song most of the time by bob dylan reminds me of galen tyrol. that is all.

I have things I want to say about the last episode of BSG, but I must run away very shortly. In lieu of that, I bring to you more Cylon Baby Daddies. No spoilers for the last epi.

( Cylon Baby Daddies. I'm trying to decide what to actually call it and I'm teetering between 'A Ghost and a Hinge' and 'Down to the Bone'. Oh, how I love my boys.  )

Previous installments here, here, and here.

I will not have to be Esperanza, Marie Francoise, or Isabella any time soon. I walked into class to the beautiful sound of my teacher saying "Paper extension" and then "Let's not talk about the reading today". Someone up there loves me, I will tell you what.

What we did talk about though, was motherhood, and conceptions thereof. Somehow, a full two hours talking about bilogical impulses to be a mother, and the way that one responds physically to holding a tiny baby in their arms has filled me with the tick, tick, ticking of my own insistent imperative to procreate, and I'll say this: if ever it was clear that our bodies do not neccesarily want what is most sensible, this is an instance of that. But since my ovaries are all 'Woo! Babies!' I have decided to bring you....*drum roll* more Cylon Baby Daddies! (Or, The Brave Little Toaster and Her Two Daddies and definitely not Antietam, no matter how much I may wish to call this that, because doing so would lead to me being shanked so hard by lyra_sena).

( Cylon Baby Daddies!  )

Previous snippets here and here.

I'ma need either a Chief or Helo icon if this keeps up; can't have my two sweet fathers being under-represented.

I have: slept five hours
boogied the night away
changed my socks
coughed until point of near retching

I have not: fully woken up yet
made my coffee maker work
had any caffeine
finished the paper due today
done the reading for today.


I cannot: skip class.
run away to Mexico and change my name to Esperanza.
run away to Montreal and change my name to Marie Francoise.
run away to Milan and change my name to Isabella.
buy coffee.
park remotely near where I'm going to need to be on campus.
freak out!!!
go back to bed.


I will: perservere.
answer to my actual name until circumstances really dictate a flight to another country.
fake having done the reading.
fake being awake/take a nap later.
throw myself upon the altar of fate and hope that everything turns out the way I wish it to.

Right. Onward. Here I go. Dear God, here I go.

So, there comes a point when you look into your cupboard and you see the following things: ramen, ramen, ramen, and more ramen, a jar of holland onions, a can of olives and some tomato paste. Eating more ramen feels like slowly killing yourself, so you think "Tomato paste. I can do something with that, right?"

The answer is absolutely yes! Especially if you borrow pasta from your room mate and find a very old but still edible bell pepper in the fridge! My pasta is delicious! And absolutely not at all ramen! Thank God! The holland onions are maybe a somewhat odd addition to the sauce, but hey, it works. And if you cover anything with a lot of pepper, it pretty much just tastes like delicious, delicious pepper. In conclusion, DINNER: ACCOMPLISHED.

Also, hidden in the back of my refrigerator was a bottle of good beer that I remember buying long, long ago. My kitchen is the kitchen that just keeps giving.

In other news: there's a blister on my toe that I feel is mocking me. You will not beat me, blister. You will not keep me down; I will not allow it.

And, okay, what I'm about to say next is going to sound weird, but I think we all have these little issues from time to time. But honestly, if I hear one more compliment on my breasts, I may lose my temper entirely. I mean, compliments are nice, sure, but you know what? When you're a D-cup from 4th grade onward, you get sick of people noticing your chest region before other parts of you, and you're pretty much over hearing talk about your breasts. I mean, really? Pick another part of the body to compliment, I don't care if you are 1) a really good friend trying to tell you that you look hot in a new shirt, or 2) a significant other trying to be sexy or really anything at all.

Here, I'll even help, world: I have nice eyes! My calves are very shapely! My fingers are long! I have delicate wrists and a lady like mouth! (Lady like in terms of shape, not in terms of what I say, because that would just be funny.) I have pert elbows! My nose is refined! My chin speaks to my determination and defiance!

Just, for the love of God, universe, leave my breasts out of it. The end.

Because I wrote more Cylon Baby!Daddies! I'm feeling like I might snippet in this from time to time, because, y'all - Helo and Chief! Baby!Daddies! It may not make much sense if you haven't read this.

( Cylon Baby!Daddies AU, spoilers for Download.  )

i am feeling low today. there's something pleasing about the way those words go together, though the sensation itself i could probably do without. is it 'cellar door' that's supposed to be the most beautiful phrase in the english language? i can't remember, but it is a lovely phrase. also, my internets are slow. hi, this post so far is brought to you by free association.

at any rate, i have several things i want to say. first, let's talk about bsg, shall we?

( thoughts on six and baltar, and really shallow episode commentary. also, my chief love could take your chief love. )

secondly on the agenda i would like to say the following things about sga: i have had a ronon epiphany. that epiphany is that i love ronon, and his smooth, beautiful skin, and his gleaming biceps. in a game of cliff/shag/marry concerning the men of sga, i would definitely marry ronon. and give him beer and cookies. together we would devour meadows filled with oreos. also, i, unlike his team and elizabeth, would listen to his input. i would be the ewok to his wookie. life would be so sweet.