charlize sex

la confidential ficlet: the devil was wiser (jack vincennes)

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.

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  • Current Music
    baby baby baby bitch (it's part of a song that's in my head, but i have no idea who or what it is)


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.
  • Current Music
    Sleep-Godspeed You Black Emperor!-Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven (Disc Two)
hearty robot - our escape

(no subject)

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.
  • Current Mood
    loved loved

Gimme a laugh, y'all.

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.
  • Current Mood
    paper time!!
jude sex

(no subject)

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.
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    pleased pleased
drama pig! (foxlet)

Family Resemblance.

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.

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: 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?
nifra_idril: Sometimes, you scare me a lot.
Nif!Dad: H


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.
  • Current Mood
    amused amused
Poppies! - boxedslod!



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.)


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.


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.


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!?"


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."
  • Current Music
    night rider on scifi, which is also a confession.
Girlfight! - Commodorified!!

the daquiri is a learner's permit for life


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.
  • Current Mood
    exanimate exanimate
get yr RIFT ON! - slod

Firstly, I want you to realize that my hair is not a tootsie roll.

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.


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!


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


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.
  • Current Music
    my mind whirring around like a dancer in cirque du soleil
my life is all caps

existence = motion?

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.
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    rushed rushed